<''' r 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS J 



# J/^/icU ZL'.-. # 

I UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. | 



C M F f. E T E 

WORKS- OF ROBERT BURNS. 



igtM^ttTS W$Ut 



of 



B^IB 



® ^ 



Bwi^m 



m 3J ifi 




BOSTOH: 
XE£ AHD SHEPAR0, PUBLXSHERS 



KEW YOBK: 
I,EE, SHEPAR»,AH» DILUHGHAH 



THE COMPLETE WORKS 



ROBERT BURNS: 



CONTAINING HIS 



POEMS, SONGS, AND CORRESPONDENCE; 



3. ii^to f if^ 0f tlj^ f 0^t, 



NOTICES, CRITICAL AND BIOGRAPHICAL. 



By ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 



ELEGANTLY ILLUSTRATED. 



BOSTON : 

LEE AND SHEPARD. 

NEW YORK: 

LEE, SHEPARD, & DILLINGHAM. 

1873. 



ARCHIBALD HASTIE, ESQ., 



KJSMBER CF PARLIAMENT FOR PAISLE? 



EDITION 



Ti/E WORKS AND MEMOIRS OF A GREAT POET, 



IN WHOSE SENTIMENTS OF FEEEDOM HE SHARES, 



AND WHOSE PICTURES OF SOCIAL AND DOMESTIC LIFE HE LOVES, 



28 RESPECTFULLY AND GBATEPULLT BTSCBIBSC 



ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 



DEDICATION 



NOBLEMEN AND GENTLEMEN 



CALEDONIAN HUNT. 



[On the title-page of the second or Edinburgh edition, were these words : " Poems, chiefly ii, 
Ihe Scottish Dialect, by Robert Burns, printed for the Author, aild sold by William Creech, 1787." 
The motto of the Kilmarnock edition was omitted ; a very numerous list of subscribers followed : 
the volume was printed by the celebrated Smellie.] 

My Lords and Gtentlemen : 

A Scottish Bard, proud of -the name, and whose highest ambition is to smg m 
his country's service, where shall he so properly look for patronage as to the illustrious 
names of his native land : those who bear the honours and inherit the virtues of their 
ancestors ? The poetic genius of my country found me, as the prophetic bard Elijah 
did Elisha — at the plough, and threw her inspiring mantle over me. She bade mo 
sing the loves, the joys, the rural scenes and rural pleasures of my native soil, in my 
native tongue ; I tuned my wild, artless notes as she inspired. She whispered me to 
come to this ancient metropolis of Caledonia, and lay my songs under your honoured 
protection : I now obey her dictates. 

Though much indebted to your goodness, I do not approach you, my Lords and 
Grentlemen, in the usual style of dedication, to thank you for past favours : that path 13 
BO hackneyed by prostituted learning that honest rusticity is ashamed of it. Nor do I 
present this address with the venal soul of a servile author, looking for a continuation 
of those favours : I was bred to the plough, and am independent. I come to claim the 
common Scottish name with you, my illustrious countrymen ; and to tell the world that 
[ glory in the title. I come to congratulate my country that the blood of her ancient 
heroes stili runs uncontaminated, and that from your courage, knowledge, and publio 

(7) 



rliJ DEDICATION. 



spirit, she may expect protectiua, wealth, and liberty. In the last place, I come tc 

proffer my warmest wishefi W tlie great fountain of honour, the Monarch of the universe, 

for your welfare and happiaess. 

When you go totik to waken the echoes, in the ancient and favourite amusement 

of your forefathers, may Pleasure ever be of your party : and may social joy await yonr 

return I When harassed in courts or camps with the jostlings of bad men and bad 

measures, may the honest consciousness of injured worth attend your return to your 

oative seats ; and may domestic happiness, with a smiling welcome, meet you at your 

gates I May corruption shrink at your kindling indignant glance ; and may tyranny 

in the ruler, and licentiousness in the people, equally find you an inexorable foe I 

I have the honour to be, 

With the sincerest gratitude and highest respect, 

My Lords and Gentlemen, 

Your most devoted humble servant, 

ROBERT BURNS. 
BoiNBUiiaH, April 4, 1787. 



PEERAGE. 



I CANNOT give to my country this edition of one of its favourite poets, -withoui 
stating that I have deliberately omitted several pieces of verse ascribed to Burns 
by other editors, who too hastily, and I think on insuflS.cient testimony, admitted theni 
Emong his works. If I am unable to share in the hesitation expressed by one of them 
on the authorship of the stanzas on " Pastoral Poetry," I can as little share in the feel- 
ings with which they have intruded into the charmed circle of his poetry such compoai 
tions as " Lines on the Ruins of Lincluden College," " Verses on the Destruction of th« 
Woods of Drumlanrig," " Verses written on a Marble Slab in the Woods of Aberfeldy," 
and those entitled "The Tree of Liberty." These productions, with the exception of 
the last, were never seen by any one even in the handwriting of Burns, and are one and 
all wanting in that original vigour of language and manliness of sentiment which di& 
tinguish his poetry. With respect to "The Tree of Liberty" in particular, a subject 
dear to the heart of the Bard, can any one conversant with his genius imagine that be 
wftlcomed its growth or celebrated its fruit with such " capon craws" as these ? 



" Upo' this tree there grows sic fruit, 

Its virtues a' can tell, man; 
It raises man aboon the brute, 

It mak's him ken himsel', man. 
Gif ance the peasant taste a bit, 

He's greater than a lord, man. 
An' wi' a beggar shares a mite 

0' a' he can afford, man." 

There are eleven stanzas, of which the best, compared with the " A man's a man for a' 
that" of Earns, sounds like a cracked pipkin against the " heroic clang" of a Damascus 
blade. That it is extant in the handwriting of the poet cannot be taken as a proof that 
't is his own composition, against the internal testimony of utter want of all the marks 
oy which we know him — the Burns-stamp, so to speak, which is visible on all that 
ever came from his pen. Misled by his handwriting, I inserted in my former edition 
of his works an epitaph, beginning 

" Here lies a rose, a budding rose," 

(9) 



PREFACE. 



the composition of Shenstone, and which is to be found in the churchyard of HaleB< 
Owen : as it is not included in every edition of that poet's acknowledged works, Burns, 
who was an admirer of his genius, had, it seems, copied it with his own hand, and hence 
my error. If I hesitated about the exclusion of "The Tree of Liberty," and its 
three false brethren, I could have no scruples regarding the fine song of " Evan Banks," 
jlaimed and justly for Miss Williams by Sir Walter Scott, or the humorous song called 
" Shelah O'Neal," composed by the late Sir Alexander Boswell. When I have stated 
that I have arranged the Poems, the Songs, and the Letters of Burns, as nearly as 
possible in the order in which they were written ; that I have omitted no piece of either 
verse or prose which bore the impress of his hand, nor included any by which his higt 
reputation would likely be impaired, I have said all that seems necessary to be said, sava 
that the following letter came too late for insertion in its proper place : it is characteristic 
and worth a place anywhere. 

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM 



TO DR. ARCHIBALD LAURIE. 

Mossgiel, IZth Nov. 1786 
Dear Sir, 

I have along with this sent the two volumes of Ossian, with the remaining volume of the Songs. 
Ossian I am not in such a hurry about ; but I wish the Songs, with the volume of the Scotch Poets, 
returned as soon as they can conveniently be dispatched. If they are left at Mr. Wilson, the 
bookseller's shop, Kilmarnock, they will easily reach me. 

My most respectful compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Laurie ; and a Poet's warmest wishes foi 
their happiness to the young ladies ; particularly the fair musician, whom I think much bettei 
ijualified than ever David was, or could be, to charm an evil spirit out of a Saul. 

Indeed, it needs not the feelings of a poet to be interested in the welfare of one of the sweetest 
ECienes of domestic peace and kindred love that ever I saw; as I think the peaceful unity of St 
Margaret's ,Hj,U can .pnly be excelled by the harmonious concord of the Apocalyptic Zion. 

I am, dear Sir, yours sincerely, 

Robert Bcens. 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



Thb Lipb of Robbrt Burns •*. xsM 

Preface to the Kilmarnock Edition of 1786 „ i|| 

Dedication to the Edinburgh Edition of 1787 



POEMS, 



PAGB 

Winter A Dirge 61 

The Death and dying Words of poor Mailie . 61 

Po-jr Mailie's Elegy 62 

First Epistle to Davie, a brother Poet . . 63^ 

Second 64 

Address to the Deil 65 

The auld Farmer's New-year Morning Salutation 
to his auld Mare Maggie ... 67 

To a Haggis 68 

A Prayer under the pressure of violent Anguish 69 
A Prayer in the prospect of Death . .69 
Stanzas on the same occasion . . .69 

A Winter Night 70 

Remorse. A Fragment 71 

The Jolly Beggars. A Cantata ... 71 
Death and Dr. Hornbook. A True Story . . 76 
The Twa Herds ; or, the Holy Tulzie . . 78 

Holy Willie's Prayer 79 

Epitaph on Holy Willie .... 80 

The Inventory ; in answer to a mandate by the 

surveyor of taxes 81 

The Holy Fair 82 

The Ordination . . . ' . . .84 

The Calf 86 

To James Smith '.86 

The Vision 88 

Halloween ....... 92 

Man was made to Mourn. A Dirge , . 95 
To Ruin . . . . . . . .96 

To John Goudie of Kilmarnock, on the publica- 
tion «1 his Essays 97 

To J. Lapraik, an old Scottish Bard. First 

Epistle 97 

To J. Lapraik, Second Epistle ... 99 



?An 

To J. Lapraik. Third Epistle . . 100 

■To William Simpson, Ochiltree . . . 101 
'Address to an illegitimate Child . .1 OH 

•Nature's Law. A Poem humbly inscribed to 

G. H., Esq 103 

To the Rev. John M'Math . . . .104 

To a Mouse 105 

Scotch Drink 106 

The Author's earnest Cry and Prayer to the Scotch 

Representatives of the House of Commons 107 
•Address to the unco Guid, or the rigidly Right- 
eous 110 

•Tam Samson's Elegy .... Ill 

Lament, occasioned by the unfortunate issue of 

a Friend's Amour .... 112 

Despondency. An Ode . . » . 113 

The Cotter's Saturday Night ... 114 

The first Psalm 117 

The first six Verses of the ninetieth Psalm . 118 
To a Mountain Daisy . . . . .118 
Epistle to a young Friend ... 119 

To a Louse, on seeing one on a Lady's Bonnet 

at Church 120 

Epistle to J. Rankine, enclosing some Poems 121 
On a Scotch Bard, gone to the West Indies 122 

The Farewell 123 

Written on the blank leaf of my Pooms, pre- 
sented to an old Sweetheart then married 123 
A Dedication to Gavin Hamilton, Esq. . 123 
Elegy on the Death of Robert Ruisseaux . 125 
Letter to -James Tennant of Glenconner . 125 
On the Birth of a posthumous Child . 126 

To Miss Cruikshank ..... 126 

W'Uie Chalmers 127 

(11) 



xii CONTENTS. 


PAGE 


rAoi 


Verses left in the room where he slept . . 128 


On sesing a wounded Hare limp by me, which a 


■ To Gavin Hamilton, Esq., recommending a boy 128 


Fellow had just shot . . . .157 


• To Mr. M'Adam, of Craigen-gillan . . 129 


To Dr. Blacklock. Li answer to a Letter . 158 


Answer to a Poetical Epistle sent to the Author 


Delia. An Ode . . . . . . 159 


by a Tailor 129 


To John M'Murdo, Esq 15£ 


- To J. Tlankine. " I am a keeper of the law." 130 


Prologue, spoken at the Theatre, Dumfries, 1st 


. Lines written on a Bank-note ... 130 


January, 1790 t59 


. A Dream . , 130 


Scots Prologue, for Mr. Sutherland's Benefit- 


. A Bard's E,.itaph 132 


night, Dumfries 160 


- The Twa Dogs. A Tale . . . .132 


Sketch. New-year's Day. To Mrs. Dunlop 160 


. Lines on meeting with Lord Daer , . 135 


To a Gentleman who had sent him a Newspaper, 


Address to Edinburgh . . -136 


and offered to continue it free of expense 161 


• Epistle to Major Logan .... 137 


The Kirk's Alarm. A Satire. First Version 163 


• The Brigs of Ayr - . . . ■ 138 


The Kirk's Alarm. A BaUad. Second Version 163 


On the Death of Robert Dundas, Esq., of Amis- 


Peg Nicholson . . . . *. . 165 


ton, late Lord President of the Court of 


On Captain Matthew Henderson, a gentleman 


Session 141 


who held the patent for his honours imme- 


' On reading in a Newspaper the Death of John 


diately from Almighty God . . .165 


M'Leod, Esq 141 


The Five Carlins. A Scots Ballad . . 167 


• To Miss Logan, with Beattie's Poems . . 142 


The Laddies by the Banks o' Nith . . 163 


• The American War. A Fragment .' . 142 


Epistle to Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintray, on 


■ The Dean of Faculty. A new Ballad . .143 


the close of the disputed Election between 


' To a Lady, with a Present of a Pair of Drinking- 


Sir James Johnstone, and Captain Miller, 


srln-ses 144 


for the Dumfries district of Boroughs . 169 


■ To Clarioda 144 


On Captain Grose's Peregrination through Scot- 


Verses written under the Portrait of the Poet 


land, collecting the Antiquities of that king- 


P6rgusson 144 


dom 170 . 


Prologue spoken by Mr. Woods, on his Benefit- 


Written in a wrapper, enclosing a letter to Cap- 


night, Monday, April 16, 1787 . . 145 


tain Grose ...... 171 


Sketch. A Character 145 


Tarn O'Shanter. A Tale . . . .171 


•^ To Mr. Scott, of Wauchope ... 145 


Address of Beelzebub to the President of the 


• Epistle to William Creech . . . .146 


Highland Society ..... 174 


- The humble Petition ■ of Bruar- Water, to the 


To John Taylor 175 


noble Duke of Athole . . . .147 


Lament of Mary Queen of Scots, on the approach 


• On scaring some Water-fowl in Loch Turit 148 


of Spring 175 


Written with a pencil, over the chimney-piece, 


The Whistle , . .176 


in the parlour of the Inn at Kenmure, Tay- 


Elegy on Miss Burnet of Monboddo . . 178 


mouth . . . ... .149 


Lament for James, Earl of Glencairn . . 178 


Written with a pencil, standing by the Fall of 


Lines sent to Sir John Whitefoord, Bart., of 


Fyers, near Loch Ness . . . ,149 


Whitefoord, with the foregoing Poem . 179 


To Mr. William Tytler, with the present of the 


Address to the Shade of Thomson, on crowning 


Bard's picture 150 


his Bust at Ednam with bays . . 179 


Written in Friars-Carse Hermitage, on the 


To Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintray . . 180 


banks of Nith, June, 1780. First Copy , 150 


To Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintray, on receiving 


• The same. December, 1788. Second Copy 151 


a favour 181 


To Captain Riddel, of Qlenriddel. Extempore 


AVision 181 


lines On returning a Newspaper . . 152 


To John Maxwell, of Terraughty, on his birthday 183 


A Mother's Lament for the Death of her Son . 152 


The Rights of Women, an occasional Address 


■ first Epistle to Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintray 152 


spoken by Miss Fontenelle, on her benefit- 


On the Death of Sir James Hunter Blair . 153 


night, Nov. 26, 1792 .... 18' 


• Epistle to Hugh Parker ..... 154 


Monody on a Lady famed for her caprice . l'&^ 


Lines, intended to be written under a Noble 


Epistle from Esopus to Maria . . . 184 


Eari's Picture . . . . . 155 


Poem on Pastoral Poetry . . . . 18S 


Elegy on the year 1788. A Sketch . . 155 


Sonnet, written on the 25th January, 1793, the 


- Address to the Toothache .... 155 


birthday of the Author, on hearing a thrush 


, Ode. Sacred to the memory of Mrs. Oswald, of 


sing in a morning walk . . . 18S 


Auehencruive 156 


Sonnet on the death of Robert Riddel, Esq., of 


Fragment inscribed to the Right Hon. C. J. Pox 156 


Glenriddel, April, 1794 . . 186 



CONTENTS. 



xu 



[mpromptu on Mrs. Riddel's birthday 
Liberty. A Fragment 
Verses to a young Lady . 
The Vowels. A Tale . . ^ . 
John Rankine 



FASK 

. 186 

186 

. 186 

187 

. 187 

On Sensibility. To my dear and much-hon- 
oured friend, Mrs. Dunlop, of Dunlop . 188 
Lines ss'st to a Gentleman whom he had of- 

fenisd 188 

Ajlress spoken by Miss Fontenelle on her 

Beneft-night . . . . . .188 

On seeing Miss Fontenelle in a favourite cha- 
racter . . .... 189 



To Chloris 18S 

Poetical Inscription for an Altar to Independ- 
ence 189 

The Heron Ballads. Ballad First . . .190 
The Heron Ballads. Ballad Second . . 190 
The Heron Ballads. Ballad Third . .192 

Poem addressed to Mr. Mitchell, Collector of 

Excise, Dumfries, 1796 . . . .193 
To Miss Jessy Lewars, Dumfries, with Johnson's 

Musical Museum . . . . , 19S 
Poem on Life, addressed to Colonel de Peystor, 

Dumfries, 1796 193 



EPITAPHS, EPIGRAMS, FRAGMENTS, &c. 



PAGB 

On the Author's Father , . . . 194 

On B,. A., Esq ' . 194 

On a Friend . . . . . . 194 

For Gavin Hamilton 194 

On wee Johnny 195 

On John Dove, Innkeeper, Mauchline . . 195 

On a Wag in Mauchline .... 195 

On a celebrated ruling Elder .... 195 

On a noisy Polemic 195 

Ou Miss Jean Scott .... 195 

On a henpecked Country Squire . . . 195 

On the same 196 

On the same 196 

The Highland "Welcome 196 

On William Smellie 196 

Written on a window of the Inn at Carron . . 196 

The Book-worms .196 

Lines on Stirling ...... 197 

The Reproof 197 

The Reply . 197 

Lin es written under the Picture of the celebrated 

Miss Burns 197 

Extempore in the Court of Session . . 197 

The henpecked Husband . > . . 197 

Written at Inverary 198 

On Elphinston's Translation of Mai'tiar« Epi- 
grams 198 

Inscription on the Head-atone of Feigusson . 198 

On a Schoolmaster 198 

A Grace before Dinner ..... 198 

A Grace before Meat .... 198 

On Wat . . . . . .198 

On Captain Francis Grose ... 199 

Impromptu to Miss Ainslie . . .' 199 

Ihe Kirk of Lamington .... 199 

The League and Covenant . . . 199 



Written on a pane of glass in the Inn at Moffat 199 

Spoken on being appointed to the Excise . 199 

Lines on Mrs. Kemble . . . 19tf 

To Mr. Syme 200 

To Mr. Syme, with a present of a dozen of 

porter 200 

A Grace * . . 200 

Inscription on a goblet 200 

The Invitation . . . . • . . 200 

The Creed of Poverty 200 

Written in a Lady's pocket-book . . 200 

The Parson's Looks 200 

Th§ Toad-eater . . . . . 201 

On Robert Riddel . . . . . 201 

The Toast 201 

On a Person nicknamed the Marquis . . 201 

Lines written on a window . . . 201 
Lines written on a window of the Globe Tavern, 

Dumfries 201 

The Selkirk Grace 202 

To Dr. Maxwell, on Jessie Staig's Recovery 202 

Epitaph .203 

Epitaph on William Nicol . . c 202 

On the Death of a Lapdog, named Echo . 202 

On a noted Coxcomb 203 

On seeing the beautiful Seat of Lord Galloway 202 

On the same 203 

On the same 203 

To the same, on the Author being threatened 

with his resentment .... 203 

On a Country Laird 203 

On John Bushby 203 

The true loyal Natives .... 203 

On a Suicide 203 

Extempore, pinned on a Lady's coach . 203 

Lines to John Rankine . . . . 20^ 



lUY 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Jessy Lewars . . . . . . 204 

The Toast 204 

On Miss Jessy Lewars .... 204 

On the recovery of Jessy Lewars . . . 204 

Tarn the Chapman 204 

" Here's a hottle and an honest friend" . . 205 

•' The' fickle fortune has deceived me" . 205 

To John Kennedy • 205 



lASl 

To the same 20i 

" There's naethin* like the honest nappy" . 201 
On the blank leaf of a work by Hannah More, 

presented by Mrs. 0. . r . . 206 
To the Men and Bi'bthren of the Masonic Lodge 

at Tarbolton .206 

Impromptu 208 

Prayer for Adam Armour .... 20# 



SONGS AND BALLADS. 



FAOK 

Handsome Nell . . . . '. .207 
Lueki.. ss Fc/tune ... 208 

"I dream'd I lay where flowers were springing" 208 
Tibbie, I hae seen the day . . . 208 

"My father was a farmer upon the Carrick 

border" 209 

Johu Barleycorn. A Ballad . . . .210 

The Rigs o' Barley 210 

Montgomery's Peggy 211 

The Mauchline Lady .... 211 

The Highland Lassie 211 

Peggy 212 

The rantin' Dog the Daddie o't . . . 213 
" My heart was ance as blithe and free" , 213 
My Nannie . . . . . .213 

A Fragment. " One night as I did wander" 214 

Bonnie Peggy Alison 214 

Grreen grow the Rashes, . . . . 214 
My Jean., . . . . * . ..215 

Robin 215 

"Her flowing locks, the raven s wing" . . 216 
" leave novels, ye Mauchline belles" . 216 

Young Peggy '. .216 

The Cure for all Care . . . , 217 

Eliza 217 

The Sons of Old Killie .... 217 
And maun I still on Menie doat . . . 218 
The Farewell to the Brethren of St. James's 

Lodge, Tarbolton . . . •. 218 

On Cessnock Banks 219 

Mary 220 

The Lass of Ballochmyle .... 220 
"■ The gloomy night is gathering fast" . . 221 
" whar did ye get that hauver meal bannock ?" 221 

The .Joyful Widower 221 

•' Whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad" . 222 
" I am my mamm5''s ae bairn" . . . 222 
The Birks of Aberfeldy .... 222 
Macpherson's Farewell .... 223 

Bj-aw, braw Lads of Galla Water . . 223 

"Stay, my charmer, can you leave me?" , 224 



Strathallan's Lament .... 

My Hoggie 

Her Daddie forbad, her Minnie forbad 

Up in the Morning early 

The young Highland Rover . . 

Hey the dusty Miller .... 

Duncan Davison .... 

Theniel Menzies' bonnie Mary . 

The Banks of the Devon 

Weary fa' you, Duncan Gray . 

The Ploughman .... 

Landlady, count the Lawin . . . 

" Raving winds around her blowing" . 

" How long and dreary is the night" . 

Musing on the roaring Ocean 

Blithe, blithe and merry was she 

The blude red rose at Yule may blaw . 

O'er the Water to Charlie 

A Rosebud by my early walk 

Rattlin', roarin' Willie .... 

Where braving angry Winter's Storms 

Tibbie Dunbar . ' . 

Bonnie Castle Gordon 

My Harry was a gallant gay 

The Tailor fell through the bed, thimbles i 

Ay Waukin ! 

Beware o' Bonnie Ann 

The Gardener wi' his paidle . 

Blooming Nelly 

The day returns, my bosom burns . 

My Love she's but a lassie yet . . 
Jamie, come try me .... 

Go fetch to me a Pint o' Wine 

The Lazy Mist 

mount and go .... 

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw . . 
Whistle o'er the ]ave o't . . . 
were I on Parnassus' Hill . . . 
" There's a youth in this city" . 
My heart's in the Highlands . 
J'ohn Anderson, my Jo . . , 



224 
224 
224 
225 
225 
225 
226 
226 
226 
227 
227 
228 
228 
228 
229 
229 
229 
230 
230 
230 
231 
231 
231 
232 
i' 232 
232 
233 
233 
233 
234 
234 
234 
235 
235 
235 
235 
236 
236 
237 
237 
237 



CONTENTS. 



FAGB 

Awa, Whig8, awa 238 

Ca' the Ewes to the Knowes ... 238 

Merry hae I been teethin' a heckle . . 239 

The Braes of Ballochmyle .... 239 

To Mary in Heaven . . . ; . 239 

Eppie Adair .240 

The Battle of Sherriflf-muir ... 240 

Toung Jockey was the blithest lad . . 241 

Willie brewed a peck o' maut . . 241 
Tae braes o' Killiecrankie, ... 241 

1 gaed a waefu' gate yestreen .• • . . 242 

The Banks of Nith 242 

Tarn Glen . 242 

Frae the friends and land I love . . . 243 

Craigie-burn Wood ..... 243 

Cock up your Beaver 244 

meikle thinks my luve o' my beauty . 244 
Gudewife, count the Lawin .... 244 
!P?-.er£'" ne -y be piao > -^'Jl Jmda arme? hanai^ 24 f» 
The bonnie lad that's far awa . . . 245 

1 do confess thou art sae fair . . . 246 
Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide 246 
It is na, Jean, thy bonnie face . . . 246 
WTien 1 think on the happy days . . . 247 
Whan I sleep I dream .... 247 
" I murder hate by field or flood" . , 247 
gude ale comes and gude ale goes . . 247 

Eobin shure in hairst 248 

B«nnie Peg 248 

Gudeen to you, Kimmer .... 248 

Ah, Chloris, since it may na b^ . . 249 

Eppie M'Nab ,..;;.. 249 

Wha is that at my bower- door . . . 249 

What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man . 250 

Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing . , 250 

The tither morn when I forlorn . . . 260 

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever . . . 251 

Lovely Davies ...... 251 

The weary Fund o' Tow .... 252 

Naebody 262 

An for ane and twenty, Tarn . . . 252 

Zenmure's on and awa, WUlie . . . 263 

The ColUer Laddie 263 

Nithsdale's Welcome Hame . . . 264 

Aji I was a-wand'ring ae Midsummer e'enin . 254 

Bassy and her Spinning-wheel . . . 254 

Ihe Posie 255 

The Country Lass 255 

Turn again, thou fair Eliza .... 256 

Ye Jacobites by name .... 256 

Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Doon . . . 257 

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon . . 257 

Willie Wastle 257 

Lady Mary Ann 258 

Such a parcel of rogues in a nation . . 258 

The Carle of Kellyburn braes . . . 259 

Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss . . . 260 

Vady Onlie 260 



The Chevalier's Lament 

Song of Death .... 

Flow gently, sweet Afton 

Bonnie Bell .... 

Hey ca' thro', ca' thro' . 

The Gallant weaver 

The deuks dang o'er my Daddie 

She's fair and fause 

The Deil cam' fiddling thro' the town 

The lovely Lass of Inverness 

my luve's like a red, red rose 
Louis, what reek I by thee 
Had I the wyte she bade me . 
Coming through the rye 

Young Jamie, pride of a' the plait 

Out over the Forth I look to the north 

The Lass of Ecclefechan 

The Cooper o' Cuddle 

F"-" th( sr^ke "•■'^sor'e'iod'' ^ 

1 coft a stane o' haslock woo 

The lass that made the bed for me 

Sae far awa . . ^ . 

I'll ay ca' in by yon town 

wat ye wha's in yon town 

May, thy morn .... 

Lovely Polly Stewart 

Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie 

Anna, thy charms my bosom fire 

Cassilis' Banks .... 

To thee, lov'd Mth ... 

Bannocks o' Barley 

Hee Balou ! my sweet wee Donald 

Wae is my heart, and the tear's in my 

Here's his health in water 

My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form 

Gloomy December 

My lady's gown, there's gairs upon 't 

Amang the trees, where humming bees 

The gowden locks of Anna 

My ain kind dearie, 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary 

She is a winsome wee thing 

Bonny Leslie 

Highland Mary . 

Auld Rob Morris . 

Duncan Gray .... 

poortith cauld, and restless love 

Galla Water .... 

Lord Gregory 

Mary Morison .... 

Wandering Willie. First Version 

Wandering Willie. Last Version 

Oh, open the door to me, oh ! 



The poor and honest sodger 
Meg o' the Mill 
Blithe hae I been on yon hill 
Logan Water . . . • 



ivi 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

" were my love yon lilac fair" , . . 281 

Ponnie Jean 282 

Phillis the fair 283 

Had I a cave on some wild distant shore . 283 

By Allan stream • 283 

Whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad . 284 

Adown winding Nith I did wander . . 284 
Come, let me take thee to my breast . . 285 

Dftintie Davie • 285 

Soots wha hae wi' Wallace bled. First Version 285 
Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled. Second Version 286 
Behold the hour, the boat arrives . . 287 

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie . . . 287 
Auld lang syne . . . . . . 287 

" Where are the joys I have met in the morning" 288 



" Deluded swain, the pleasure" . . . 288 

Nancy 288 

Husband, husband, cease your strife . 289 

Wilt thou be my dearie ? .... 289 

But lately seen in gladsome green . . . 290 

" Could aught of song declare my pains" . 290 

Here's to thy health, my bonnie lass . . 290 

It was a' for our rightfu' king . , 291 

steer her up and baud her gaun ;. . 291 

ay my wife she dang me ... 291 

wert thou in the cauld blast . . . 292 

The Banks of Cree 292 

On the seas and far away .... 292 

Ca' the Yowes to the Knowes . . . 293 

Sae flaxen were her ringlets .... 293 

saw ye my dear, my Phely? . . . 294 

How lang and dreary is the night . . 294 

Let not woman e'er complain . . . 294 

The Lover's Morning Salute to his Mistress . 295 

My Chloris, mark how green the groves , 295 

Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe . . .296 

Lassie wi' the lint-white locks . . . 296 



PASl 

Farewell, thou stream, that winding flows . 298 

Philly, happy be the day ... 297 

Contented wi' little and cantie wi' mair . 297 

Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy . . 298 

My Nannie's awa ..... 298 

wha is she that lo'es me . . . . 299 

Caledonia 299 

lay thy loof in mine, lasa .... 300 

The Fete Champetre SM 

Here's a health to them that's awa . . 301 

For a' that, and a' that 301 

Craigieburn Wood 302 

lassie, art thou sleeping yet . . . 302 

tell na me o' wind and rain . . . 303 
The Dumfrfes Volunteers . . .303 

Address to the Wood-lark* . . 304 
On Chloris being iU . . . . .304 
Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands 

reckon 304 

'Twas na her bonnie blue een was my ruin 305 

How cruel are the parents . . . 305 

Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion . . 305 

this is no my ain lassie . . , 306 

Now Spring has clad the grove in green . 306 

bonnie was yon rosy brier . . . 307 

Forlorn my love, no comfort near . . 307 

Last May a braw wooer cam down tie lang glen 307 

Chloris ....... 308 

The Highland Widow's Lament . . 308 

To General Dumourier .... 309 

Peg-a-Kamsey 309 

There was a bonnie lass . . . 309 

Mally's neek, Mally's sweet . . 309 

Hey for a lass wi' a tocher . . . 310 

Jessy. " Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear" 310 

Fairest Maid on Devon banks . . . 311 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



1781. 

No. I. To William Burness. His health a 
little better, but tired of life. The Revela- 
tions 311 

1783. 

n. To Mr. John Murdoch. His present studies 
and temper of mind .... 312 

m. To Mr. James Burness. His father's ill- 
ness, and sad state of the country . , 313 

rV. To Miss E. Love 314 

V. To Miss E. Love 314 

VI. To Miss E. Love 315 

ril. To Miss E. On her refusal of his hand 316 
^III. To Robert Riddel, Esq. Observations 

&n poetry and human life .... 316 



1784. 

IX. To Mr. James Burness. On the death of hii 
father . ... 32i 

X. To Mr. James Burness. Account of th« 
Buehanites ...... 329 

XI. To Miss . With a book . . 323 

1786. 

XII. To Mr. John Richmond. His progress 

in poetic composition .... 323 

XIII. To Mr. John Kennedy. The Cotter's 
Saturday Night 324 

XIV. To Mr. Robert Muir. Enclosing Lis 

" Scotch Drink" 324 

XV. To Mr. Aiken. Enclosing a stanza on the 
blank leaf of a book by Hannah Mora 324 



1.0NTENTS. xvu 


PAGE 


, PAOt 


XVI. To Mr. M'Whinnie, ' Subscriptions . 324 


XLVL To Dr. Moore. Miss Williams . 338 


XVII. To Mr. John Kennedj. Enclosing "The 


XLVIL To John Ballantyne, Esq. His portrait 


Gowan" . 326 


engraving 339 


XVIII. To Mon. James Smith. His voyage 


XLVIII To the Earl of Glencairn. Enclosing 


to the West Indies 325 


"Lines intended it be written under a noble 


XIX. To Mr. John Kennedy. His poems in 


Earl's picture" 331 


the press. Subscriptions .... 325 


XLIX. To the Earl of Buchan. In reply to a 


XX. To Mr. David Brice. Jean Armour's 


letter of advice 331 


return, — printing his poems . . . 326 


L. To Mr. James Candlish Still "the old 


XXI. To Mr. Robert Aikin. Distress of mind* 326 


man with his deeds" . ... 349 


XXn. To Mr. John Richmond. Jean Armour 327 


LI. To . On Forgussoj s headstone . 341 


KXIII. To John Ballantyne, Esq. Aiken's cold- 


LII. To Mrs. Dunlop. His prospects on leav- 


ness. His marriage-lines destroyed . . 328 


ing Edinburgh 341 


XXrV. To Mr. David Brice. Jean Armour. 


LIII. To Mrs. Dunlop. A letter of acknow- 


West Indies 328 


ledgment for the payment of the subscription 342 


XXV. To Mr. John Ricnmond. West» Indies 


LIV. To Mr. Sibbald. Thanks for his notice 


The Armours 328 


in the magazine 343 


X:XVI. To Mr. Robert Muir. Enclosing "The 


LV. To Dr. Moore. Acknowledging the present 


Calf" 329 


of his View of Society . . . .343 


XXVII. ToMrs.Dunlop. Thanks for her notice. 


LVI. To Mr. Dunlop. Reply to criticisms . 343 


Sir William Wallace 329 


LVII. To the Rev. Dr. Hugh Blair. On leav- 


J: XVIII. To Mr. John Kennedy. Jamaica . 330 


ing Edinburgh. Thanks for his kindness . 344 


XXIX. To Mr. James Burness, His departure 


LVIII. To the Earl of Glencairn. On leaving 


uncertain 330 


Edinburgh 344 


XXX. To Miss Alexander. "The Lass of Bal- 


LIX. To Mr. William DuAar. Thanking him 
for the present of Spenser's poems . 344 


lochmyle" 330 


XXXI. To Mrs. Stewart, of Stair and Afton. 


LX. To Mr. James Johnson. Sending a song 


Enclosing some songs. Miss Alexander . 331 


to the Scots Musical Museum . . . 345 


XXXII. Proclamation in the name of the Muses 332 


LXI. To Mr. William Creech. His tour on the 


XXXIII. To Mr. Robert Muir. Enclosing "Tam 


Border. Epistle in verse to Creech . . .^45 


Samson." His Edinburgh expedition , 332 


LXII. To Mr. Patison. Business. . . S'''"' 


SXXIV. To Dr. Mackenzie. Enclosing the 


LXIII. To Mr. W. Nicol. A ride described 


verses on dining with Lord Daer . . 332 


in broad Scotch 346 


SXXV. To Gavin Hamilton, Esq. Rising fame. 


LXIV. To Mr. James Smith. Unsettled in life. 


Patronage ....... 333 


Jamaica 346 


XXXVI. To John Ballantyne, Esq. His patrons 


LXV. To Mr. W. Nicol. Mr Miller, Mr. 


and patronesses. The Lounger . . 333 


Burnside. Bought a pockex Milton . 347 


slXXVIL To Mr. Robert Muir. A note of 


LXVI. To Mr. James Candlish. Seeking a 


thanks. Talks of sketching the history of 


copy of Lowe's poem of " Pompey's Ghost" . 347 


his life 334 


LXVII. To Robert Ainslie, Esq.^ His tour 343 


XXXVIII. To Mr. William Chalmers. A hu- 


LXVIIL To Mr. W. Nicol. Auchtertyre . 348 


morous sally 334 


LXIX. To Mr. Wm. Cruikshank. Auchtertyre 348 




LXX. To Mr. James Smith. An adventure . 349 


1787. 


LXXI. To Mr. John Richmond. His rambles 35P 


XXXIX. To the Earl of Eglinton. Thanks for 


LXXII. To Mr. Robert Ainslie. Sets high 


his patronage S35 


value on his friendship . . .350 


XL. To Gavin Hamilton, Esq. Love . 335 


LXXIII. To the same. Nithsdale and Edin- 


XLL To .John Ballantyne, Esq. Mr. Miller's 


burgh 3f« 


offer of a farm 335 


LXXIV. To Dr. Moore. Account of his own life 351 


XLII. To John Ballantyne, Esq. Enclosing 


LXXV. To Mr. Robert Ainslie. A humorous 


"The Banks 0' Doon." First Copy . . 336 


letter 357 


XLIII. To Mrs. Dunlop. Dr. Moore and Lord 


LXXVI. To Mr. Robert Muir. Stirling, Ban- 


Eglinton. His situation in Edinburgh . 336 


nockburn 357 


XLIV. To Dr. Moore. Acknowledgments for 


LXXVII. To Gavin Hamilton, Esq. Of Mr. 


his notice • 337- 


Hamilton's own family .... 859 


XLV. To the Rev. G. Lowrie. Reflections on his 


LXXVIII. To Mr. Walker. Bruar Water The 


situation in life. Dr. Blacklock, Mackenrie 338 
2 


Athole family .' . , . . 36« 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

LXXTX. To Mr. Gilbert Burns. Account of his 

Highland tour 359 

LXXX. To Miss Margaret Chalmers. Charlotte 

Hamilton. Skinner. Nithsdale . . 360 

liXXXI. To the same. Charlotte Hamilton, and 

" The Banks of the Devon" . . 360 

I.XXXII. To James Hoy, Esq. Mr. Nicol. 

Johnson's Musical Museum , . . 361 

LX XXIII. To Rev. John Skinner. Thanking 

him for his poetic compliment . . . 361 
LXXXIV. To James Hoy, Esq Song by the 

Duke of Gordon 362 

LXXXV. To Mr. Robert Ainslie. His friend- 
ship for him . . . . . . , 363 

LXXXVL TotheEarlofGlencairn. Requesting 

his aid in obtaining an excise appointment . 363 
LXXXVII. To James Dalrymple, Esq. Rhyme. 

Lord Gleneairn 363 

LXXXVIII. To Charles Hay, Esq. Enclosing 

his poem on the death of the Lord President 

Dundas 364 

LXXXIX. To Miss M— n. Compliments . 364 
XC. To Miss Chalmers. Charlotte Hamilton . 365 
XCI. To the same. His braised limb. The 

Bible. The Ochel Hits . . .365 

XCII. To the same. His motto— "I dare." 

His own worst enemy 365 

XCIII. To Sir John Whitefoord. Thanks for 

his friend.ii^p. Of poets . . .366 

XCrV. To .M.'ss Williams. Comments on her 

poem of tht> Slave Trade . . . 366 

XCV. To Mr, Richard Brown. Recollections 

of early life, Clarinda . . . 368 

XCVI. To Ga^in Hamilton, Esq. Prayer for 

his health 369 

XCVII. To Miss Chalmers. Complimentary 

poems. Creech . . . . ^ . 369 

1788. 

XCVIII. To Mrs. Dunlop. Lowness of spirits. 

Leaving Edinburgh 370 

XCIX. To the same. Religion . .370 

0. To the Rev. Johti Skinner. TuUochgorum. 

Skinner's Latin 370 

Ct To Mr Richard Brown. Hie arrival in 

Gla?gow 371 

iTlI. To Mr«, Riige, of Kilravock. Recollections 

o' Kilravock 371 

CTTl. To Mr. Richard Brown. Friendship. The 

pleasures of the present . , . . 372 
CTV. To Mr. William Cruikshank. Ellisland. 

Plans in life . . . . . ,372 

CV. To Mr. Robert Ainslie. Mlisland. Edin- 
burgh. Clarinda . , . .373 
eVL To Mr. Richard Brown. Idleness. Farming 374 
3VII. To Mr. Robert Muir. His offer for EUis- 

'an.d. The '♦lose of life . . . .374 



YAM 

CVIII. To Miss Chalmers, Taken Ellisland. 

Miss Kennedy . . . • . . , 375 
CIX. To Mrs. Dunlop. Coila's robe . . 37* 
ex. To Mr. Richard Brown. Apologies. Oa 

his way to Dumfries from Glasgow . , ?76 
CXI. To Mr. Robert Cleghorn. Poet and fame. 

The air of Captain O'Kean .... 37(1 
CXII. To Mr. William Dunbar. Foregoing 

poetry and wit for farming and business . STI 
CXIII. To Miss Chalmers. Miss Kennedy 

Jean Armour Z7l 

CXIV. To the same. Creech's rumoured bank- 
ruptcy 37f 

CXV. To the same. His entering the Excise .S!» 
CXVI. ToMrs.DunloJ). Farming and the Excise. 

Thanks for the loan of Dryden and Tasso . 378 
CXVII. To Mr. James Smith. Jocularity. Jean 

Armour 378 

CXVIII. To Professor Dugald Stewart. Enclo- 
sing some poetic trifles .... 379 
CXIX. To Mrs. Dunlop, Dryden's Virgil. His 

preference of Dryden to Pope . . . 379 
CXX. To Mr. Robert Ainslie. His marriage . 379 
CXXI. To Mrs. Dunlop, On the treatment of 

servants 380 

CXXII. To the same. The merits of Mrs. Burns 380 
CXXIII. To Mr. Robert Ainslie. The warfare 

of life. Books. Religion . . . .331 
CXXIV. To the same. Miers' profiles . . 382 
CXXV. To the same. Of the folly of talking . 

of one's private affairs .... 382 

CXXVL To Mr. George Loekhart. The Miss 

Baillie*. Bruar Water , . , .833 
CXXVII. To Mr. Peter Hill. With the present 

of a cheese 383 

CXXVIII. To Robert Graham Esq., of Fintray. 

The Excise ^ 384 

CXXIX. To Mr. William Cruikshank. Creech. 

Lines written In Friar's Carse Hermitage . 385 
CXXX. To Mrs. Dunlop. Lines written at Friar's 

Carse. Graham of Fintray . . . 385 
CXXXI. To the same. Mrs. Burns. Of accom- 
plished young ladies 386 

CXXXII. To the same. Mrs. Miller, of Dais- 

winton. "The Life and Age of Man." , 38? 
CXXXin. To Mr. Beugo. Ross and "The 

Fortunate Shepherdess." .... 3Sf 
CXXXIV. To Miss Chalmers. Recollections. 

Mrs. Burns. Poetry 888 

CXXXV. To Mr. Morison. Urging expedition 

with his clock and other furniture for Ellisland 39t> 
CXXXVI. To Mrs. Dunlop. Mr. Graham. Her 

criticisms 590 

CXXXVII. To Mr. Peter Hill. Criticism on an 

"Address to Loch Lomond." . . . 391 
CXXXVIII. To the Editor of the Star. Plead- 

ing for the line of the Stuarts . . . 39S 



CONTEJNTS. 



CXXXT3L j-o Mrs. Dunlop. The present of a 

heifer fron? **e Dunlops . . . .393 
CXL. To jnr. James Johnson. Scots Musical 

Mnseunf 393 

CXLL To I>r. Blacklock. Poetical progress. 

His marriasr'5 394 

CXLII. To Mrs. Dunlop. Enclosing "Auld 

Lang §yne" 394 

C'XLIII. to Miss Davies. Enclosing the song 

of " Charn vng, lovely Davies" . . . 395 
CXLTV. To Mr. John Tenn*it. Praise of his 

whiskey 395 

1789. 

b A LV. To Mrs. Dunlop. Reflections suggested 
hy the day 396 

CXLVI. To Dr. Moore. His situation and 
prospects 396 

CXLVII. To Mr. Rohert Ainslie. His favour- 
ite quotations. Musical Museum. . . 398 

CXLVIII. To Professor Dugald Stewart. Enclo- 
sing some poems for his comments upon . 398 

CXLIX. To Bishop Geddes. His situation and 
prospects 399 

CL. To Mr. James Burness. His wife and farm. 
Profit from his poems. Fanny Burns . . 399 

CLI. To Mrs. Dunlop. Reflections. His success 
in song encouraged a shoal of bardlings . 400 

CLII. To the Rev. Peter Carfrae. Mr. Mylne's 
poem 401 

CLIII. To Dr. Moore. Introduction. His ode 
to Mrs. Oswald 401 

CLR'". To Mr. William Burns. Remembrance 402 

CLV. To Mr. Peter Hill. Economy and fru- 
gality. Purchase of books .... 402 

CLVI. To Mrs. Dunlop. Sketch inscribed to 
the Right Hon. C. J. Fox . . " . .403 

CLVII. To Mr. AVilliam Burns. Asking him to 
make his house his home .... 404 

CLVIII. To Mrs. M'Murdo. With the song of 
" Bonnie Jean" 404 

CLIX. To Mr. Cunningham. With the poem 
of " The Wounded Hare" . . . . 404 

CLX. To Mr. Samuel Brown. His farm. Ailsa 
fowling 405 

CI.XI. To Mr. Richard Brown. Kind wishes 405 

CLXII. To Mr. James Hamilton. Sympathy 406 

CLXIII. To William Creech, Esq. Toothache, 
(xood wishes . . . . . . 406 

CLXIV. To Mr. M'Auley. His own welfare . 406 

CLXV. To Mr. Robert Ainslie. Overwhelmed 
with incessant toil 407 

CLXVI. To Mr. M'Murdo. Enclosing his new- 
est song 407 

CLXVII. To Mrs. Dunlop. Reflections on re- 
ligion .408 

•LXVIIT. To Mr. . Fergusson the poet. 408 



CLXIX. To Miss Williams. Enclosing criti- 
cisms on her poems 40S 

CLXX. To Mr. John Logan. With " The Kirk's 

Alarm" 410 

CLXXL To Mrs. Dunlop. Religion. Dr. Moore's 

"Zeluco" 411 

CLXXII. To Captain Riddel. " The Whistle" *1J 
CLXXIII. To the same. With som» of his MS. 

poems 41 i 

CLXXIV. To Mr. Robert Ainslie. His Excise 

employment ... . . 413 

CLXXV. To Mr. Richard BrowL His Excise 

duties 412 

CLXXVL To Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintray. 

The Excise. Captain Grose. Dr. M'Gill . 413 
CLXXVII. To Mrs. Dunlop. Reflections on 

immortality ....... 414 

CLXXVIII. To Lady M, W. Constable. Jaeo- 

bitism 415 

CLXXIX. To Provost Maxwell. At a loss for 

a subject 415 

1790.. 

CLXXX. To Sir John Sinclair. Account of a 

book-society in Nithsdale .... 418 
CLXXXI. To Charles Sharpe, Esq. A letter 

with a fictitious signature . . .416 

CLXXXII. To Mr. Gilbert Burns. His fdrm a 

ruinous afi"air. Players . . . .417 
CLXXXIII. To Mr. Sutherland. Enclosing a 

Prologue 418 

CLXXXrV. To Mr. William Dunbar. Excise. 

His children. Another world . . .418 
CLXXXV. To Mrs. Dunlop. Falconer the poet. 

Old Scottish songs 419 

CLXXXVL To Mr. Peter HiU. M^idemoiselle 

Burns. Hurdis. Smollett and Cowper . 420 
CLXXXVII. To Mr. W. Nicol. The death of 

Nicol's mare Peg Nicholson . . . 420 

CLXXXVIIL To Mr. W. Cunningham. What 

strange beings we are 421 

CLXXXIX. To Mr. Peter Hill. Orders for 

books. Mankind 423 

CXC. Tc Mrs. Dunlop.' Mackenzie and the 

Mirror and Lounger 423 

CXCI. To Collector Mitchell. A county meeting 424 
CXCII. To Dr. Moore. "Zeluco." Charlotte Smiih 425 
CXCIII. To Mr. Murdoch. William Barns . 425 
CXCrV. To Mr. M'Murdo. With the Elegy on 

Matthew Henderson 426 

CXCV. To Mrs. Dunlop. His pride wounded 426 
CXCVI. To Mr. Cunningham. Independence 426 
CXCVIL To Dr. Anderson. " The Bee." . 427 
CXCVIII. To William Tytler, Esq. With some 

West-country ballads 427 

CXCIX. To Crauford Tait, Esq. Introducing 

Mr. William Duncan . . . . .427 



CONTENTS. 



CC. To Crauford Tait, Esq. " The Kirk's Alarm" 428 
CGI. To Mrs. Dunlop. On the birth of her 
grandchild. Tarn O'Shanter . . 429 

1791. 

COIL To Lady M. W. Constable. Thanks for 

the present of a gold snuff-box . . . 429 
eCIII. To Mr. William Dunbar. Not gone to 

Elysium, Sending a poem .... 429 
CCrV. To Mr. Peter nill. Apostrophe to Poverty 430 
CCV. To Mr. Cunningham. Tarn O'Shanter. 

Elegy on Miss Burnet 430 

CCVI. To A. F. Tytler, Esq. Tarn O'Shanter . 431 
CCVII. To Mrs. Dunlop. Miss Burnet. Elegy 

writing 431 

CCVIII. To Rev. Arch. Alison. Thanking him 

for his " Essay on Taste" . . . . 432 
CCIX. To Dr. Moore. Tarn O'Shanter, Elegy 

on Henderson. Zeluco. Lord Glencairn . 432 
CCX. To Mr. Cunningham. Songs . . 433 
CCXl To Mr. Alex. Dalzel. The death of the 

Earl of Glencairn 434 

CCXIl To Mrs. Graham, of Fintray. "With 

" Queen Mary's Lament" .... 434 
OCXIII. To the same. With his printed Poems 435 
CCXIV. To the Rev. G. Baird. Michael Bruce 435 
CCXV. To Mrs. Dunlop. Birth of a son . 435 
CCXVI. To the same. Apology for delay . 436 
CCXVII. To the same. Quaint invective on a 

pedantic critic 436 

CCXVIII. To Mr. Cunningham. The case of 

Mr. Clarke of Moffat, Schoolmaster . . 437 
CCXIX. To the Earl of Buchan. With the 

Address to the shade of Thomson . 437 

CCXX. To Mr. Thomas Sloan. Apologies. His, 

crop sold well 438 

CCXXL To Lady E. Cunningham. With the 

Lament for the Earl of Glencairn . . 438 
CCXXII. To Mr. Robert Ainslie. State of mind. 

His income 439 

CCXXIIL To Col. Fullarton. With some Poems. 

His anxiety for Fullarton's friendship . . 439 
CCXXIV, To Miss Davis. Lethargy, Indolfince, 

and Rsmorse. Our wishes and our powers . 440 
CCXXV. IJo Mrs. Dunlop. Mrs. Henri. The 

Song of Death 440 

1792. 

3CXXVI. To Mrs. Dunlop. The animadver- 
sic/^ns of the Board of Excise . . . 441 

&DXXVII. To Mr. William Smellie. Introdu- 
cing Mrs. Riddel . . , . . ,441 

:CXXVIII. To Mr. W. Nicol. Ironical reply 
to a letter of counsel and reproof . . 442 

CCXXIX. To Francis Grose, Esq. Dugald 
Stewart 443 

OCXXX. To the same. Witch stories . . 443 



CCXXXI. To Mr. S. Clarke. Humorous itvi- 
tation to teach music to the M'Murdo family *44 

CCXXXIL To Mrs. Dunlop. Love and Lesley 
Baillie :, . 44« 

CCXXXIIL To Mr. Cunningham. Lesley Baillie 44« 

CCXXXIV. To Mr. Thomson. Promising his 
assistance to his collection of songs and airs 447 

CCXXXV. To Mrs. Dunlop. Situation of Mrs. 
Henri 443 

CCXXXVI. To the same. On the death of 
Mrs. Henri . 448 

CCXXXVri. To Mr. Thomson. Thomson's fas- 
tidiousness. "Myk Nannie 0," &e. . . 449 

CCXXXVIII. To the same. With " My wife 'a 
a winsome wee thing," and "Lesley Baillie" 45C 

CCXXXIX. To the same. With Highland Mary. 
The air of Katherine Ogie .... 45fl 

CCXL. To the same. Thomson's alterations 
and observations . . . . . . 451 

CCXLL To the same. Wn' "Auld Rob Mor- 
ris," and " Duncan Gray" . . . . 451 

CCXLII. To Mrs. Dunlop. Birth of a daughter. 
The poet Thomson's dramas , . . 451 

CCXLHI. To Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintray. 
The Excise inquiry into his political conduct 452 

CCXLIV. To Mrs. Dunlop. Hurry of business. 
Excise inquiry 453 

1793. 

CCXLV. To Mr. Thomson. With " Poortith 
cauld" and "Galla Water" .... 453 

CCXLVI. To the same. William Tytler, Peter 
Pindar 453 

CCXLVII. To Mr. Cunningham Thft float's 
seal. David Allan ..... *5* 

CCXLVIII. To Thomson. With <'Mary Mo- 
rison" 455 

CCXLIX.. Tq the same. With "Wandering 
Willie" 455 

CCL. To Miss Benson. Pleasure he had in 
meeting her ....... 4M 

CCLI. To Patrick Miller, Esq. Withfte pre- 
sent of his printed poems .... 45/ 

CCLII. To Mr. Thomson. Review of Scottish 
song. Crawfurd and Ramsay . • . 4»- 

CCLIII. To the same. Criticism. Allan Ram- 
say 4&* 

CCLLV. To the same. "The last time I came 
o'er the moor" ...... 4o- 

CCLV. To John Francis Erskine, Esq. Self- 
justification. The Excise inquiry • . . 4'5> 

CCLVI. To Mr. Robert Ainslie. Answering 
letters. Scholar-craft 46e 

CCLVII. To Miss Kennedy. A letter of com- 
pliment 461 

CCLVIII. To Mr. Thomson. Frazer. " Blithe 
hae I been on yon hill" .... 461 



CONTENTS. 



xzi 



PAOE 

CCLIX. To Mr. Thomson. "Logan Water." "0 
gin my love were yon red rose" . . . 462 

CCLX. To the same. With the song of " Bon- 
nie Jean" 463 

CCLXI. To the same. Hurt at the idea of ijecu- 
niary recompense. Remarks on song . . 463 

CCLXII. To the same. Note written in the 
i.ame of Stephen Clarke .... 464 

JCLXIII. To the same. With " Phillis the fair" 464 

CCLXIV. To the same. With " Had I a cave 
on some wild distant shore" . . . 464 

CCLXV. To the same. With "Allan Water" 464 

CCLXVI. To the same. With " whistle, and 
I'll come to j'ou, my lad," &c. . . . 465 

CCLXVII. To the same. With "Come, let me 
take thee to my breast" .... 465 

CCLXVIII To the same With "Dainty Davie" 466 
I CCLXIX. To Miss Craik. Wretchedness of 
poets ........ 466 

CCLXX. To Lady Glencairn. Gratitude. Ex- 
cise. Dramatic composition . . . 466 

CCLXXL To Mr. Thomson. With " Scots wha 
hae wi' Wallace bled" 467 

CCLXXIL To the same. With " Behold the 
hour, the boat an;ive" 468 

CCLXXIII. To the same. Crawfurd and Scot- 
tish song ....... 468 

OCLXXIV. To the same. Alterations in "Scots 
wha hae wi' Wallace bled" .... 470 

CCLXXV. To ftie same. Further suggested 
alterations in " Scots wha hae" rejected . 470 

CCLXXVI. To the same. With "Deluded 
swain, the pleasure," and " E,aving winds 
around her blowing" ..... 471 

CCLXXVIL To the same. Erskine and Gavin 
Turnbull . 471 

nCLXXVIII. To John M'Murdo, Esq. Pay- 
ment of a debt. " The Merry Muses" ■ . 472 

CCLXXIX. To the same. With his printed 
poems 473 

CCLXXX. To Captain . x\nsietyforhisac- 

quai"tance. " Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled" 473 

CCLXXXI. To Mrs Riddel. The Dumfries 
Theatre 474 

1794. 

CCLXXXII. To a Lady. In favour of a play- 
ers benefit 474 

tlLXXXIII. To the Earl of Buchan. With a 
copy of " Scots wha hae" .... 474 

CCLXXXIV. To Captain Miller. With a copy 
of " Scots wha hae" 475 

tCLXXXV. To Mrs. Riddel. Lobster-coated 
puppies 475 

CCLXXXVL To the same. The gin-horse class 
■ of the human genus ... . 475 

gCLXXXVII, To the same. With "Werter." 
Her reception of him 475 



FASt 

CCLXXXVIII. To Mrs. Riddel. Her caprice 476 
CCLXXXIX. To the same. Her neglect and 

unkindness ....... 476 

CCXC. To John Syme, Esq. Mrs. Oswald, and 

" wat ye wha's in yon town" . . . t76 
CCXCI. To Miss . Obscure allusions to a 

friend's death. His personal and poetic fame 477 
CCXCII. To iVIr. Cunningham. Hypochondria. 

Requests consolation . . . . . flf 
CCXCIII. To the Earl of Glencairn. W_th his 

printed poems ...... 47( 

CCXCIV. To Mr. Thomson. David Allan. "The 

banks of Cree" 47t» 

CCXCV. To David M'Culloch, Esq. Arrange- 
ments for a trip in Galloway . . . 479 
CCXCVI. To Mrs. Dunlop. Threatened with 

flying gout. Ode on Washington's birthday 479 
CCXCVII. To Mr. James Johnson. Low spirits. 

The Museum. Balmerino's dirk * . . 480 
GCXCVIII. To Mr. Thomson. Lines written 

in "Thomson's Collection of songs" . . 48# 
CCXCIX. To the same. With " How can my 

poor heart be glad" . . . . . 480 
CCC. To the same. With " Ca' the yowes to the 

knowes" 481 

CCCI. To the same. With " Sae flaxen were 

her ringlets." Epigram to Dr. Maxwell . 481 
CCCII. To the same. The charms of Miss Lo- 

rimer. " saw ye my dear, my Phely," &c. 482 
CCCIII. To the same.' Ritson's Scottish Songs. 

Love and song 483 

CCCIV. To the same. English .?ongs. The air 

of "Te banks and braes o' bonnie Doon" . 484 
CCCV. To the same. With " Philly, happy 

be the day," and " Contented wi' little" . 48S 
CCCVI. To the same. With "Canst thou }r»^i 

me thus, my Katy" ... . <^6 

CCCVII. To Peter Miller, jun., Esq. iwAse. 

Perry's offer to write for the Morning Chronic le 487 
CCCVIII. To Mr. Samuel Clarke, jun. A poli- 
tical and personal quarrel. Regret . . 487 
CCCIX. To Mr. Thomson. With " Now in her 

green mantle blithe nature arrays . . 48* 

1795. 

CCCX. Tc Mr. Thomson. With <" For a' that 
and a' that" ....... 488 

CCCXI. To the same. Abuse of Ecclefechan 488 

CCCXII. To the same. With " stay, sweat 
warbling woodlark, stay," and "The groves cf 
sweet myrtle" ...... 4S8 

CCCXIII. To the same. With " How cruel are 
the parents" and "Mark yonder pomp of costly 
fashion" 489 

CCCXIV. To the same. Praise of David Allan's 
" Cotter's Saturday Night" . , , .489 

CCCXV. To the same. With " This is no my ain 
Lassie." Mrs. Riddel 489 



CCCXVI. To Mr; Thomson. With "Forlorn, 
my lo re, no comfort near" .... 490 

CCCXVII. To the same. With "Last Maya 
braw wooer," and " Why tell thy lover" . 490 

CCCXVni. To Mrs. Riddel. A letter from the 
gravo 490 

CCCXIX. To the same. A letter of compliment. 
"Anacharsis' Travels" .... 491 

CCCXX. To Miss Louisa Fontenelle. With a 
Prologue for her benefit-night . . . 491 

CCCXXL To Mrs. Dunlop. His family. Miss 
Fontenelle. Cowper's " Task" . . .492 

CCCXXII. To Mr. Alexander Findlater. Ex- 
cise schemes . . . . , . 492 

CCCXXIII. To the Editor of the Morning Chro- 
nicle. Written for a friend. A complaint . 493 

CCCXXIV. To Mr. Heron, of Heron. With two 
political ballads 493 

CCCXXV. To Mrs. Dunlop. Thomson's Collec- 
tion. Acting as Supervisor of Excise . 494 

CCCXXVI. To the Right Hon. William Pitt. 
Address of the Scottish Distillers . . 495 

CCCXXVII. To the Provost, Bailies, and Town 
Council of Dumfries. Request to be made a 
freeman of the town 496 

1796. 

CCCXXVIII. To Mrs. Riddel. " Anarcharsis' 
Travels." The muses 495 

CCCXXIX. To Mrs. Dunlop. His ill-health . 496 

CCCXXX. To Mr. Thomson. Acknowledging 
bis present to Mrs. Burns of a worsted 
shawl 4S»r 

COCXXXI. To the same. Hl-health. Mrs, 
Uyslop Allan's etchings. Cleghorc . 497 



rA.aa 

CCCXXXIL To the same. "Here's a health 
to ane I loe dear" 498 

CCCXXXIIL To the same. His anxiety tc 
review his songs, asking for copies . . 40S 

CCCXXXIV. To Mrs. Riddel. His increasing 
ill-health ..!.... 498 

CCCXXXV. To Mr. Clarke, acknowledging mo- 
ney and requesting the loan of a further sum 491 

CCCXXXVI. To Mr. James Johnson. The 
Scots Musical Museum. Reques'c for a copy 
of the collection 499 

CCCXXXVII. To Mr. Cunningham. Illness 
and poverty, anticipation of death . . 499 

GCCXXXVIII. To Mr. GUbert Burns. His ill- 
health and debts 500 

CCCXXXIX. To Mr. James Armour. Entreating 
Mrs. Armour to come to her daughter's con- 
finement 500 

CCCXL. To Mrs. Burns. Sea-bathing afiforda 
litUe relief 500 

CCCXLL To Mrs. Dunlop. Her friendship. A 
farewell . 501 

CCCXLIL To Mr. Thomson. Solicits the sum 
of five pounds. "Fairest Maid on Devon 
Banks" . . .... 501 

CCCXLIIL To Mr. James Burness. Soliciting 
the sum of ten pounds .... 501 

CCCXLIV. To James Gracie, Esq. His rheu- 
matism, &c. &c. — his loss of appetite . . 502 



Remarks on Scottish Songs and Ballads . 503 

The Border Tour . . . . . .622 

The Highland Tour ..... 527 

Burns's Assignment of his Works . . 638 

aiosMxjr .Mi 



LIFE 

J 
OF 



ROBEET BURNS, 



Aoac&T Burns, the chief of the peasant poets of Scotland, was born in a little mud- wallel 
lottage on the hanks of Doon, near " AUoway's auld haunted kirk," in the shire of Ayr, on tht 
2!5th day of January, 1759. As a natural mark of the event, a sudden storm at the same moment 
iwept the land : the gabel-wall of the frail dwelling gave way, and the babe-bard was hurried 
through a tempest of wind and sleet to the shelter of a securer hovel. He was the eldest born 
of three sons and three daughters ; his father, William, who in his native Kincardineshire wrote 
his naae Burness, was bred a gardener, and sought for work in the West ; but coming from the 
Lands of the noble family of the Keiths, a suspicion accompanied him that he had been out — aa 
rebellion was softly called — in the forty-five : a suspicion fatal to his hopes of rest and bread, in 
BO loyal a district ; and it was only when the clergyman of his native parish certified his loyalty 
that he was permitted to toil. This suspicion of Jacobitism, revived by Burns himself, when he 
rose into fame, seems not to have influenced either the feelings, or the tastes of Agnes Brown, a 
young woman on the Doon, whom he wooed and married in December, 1757, when he was thirty- 
six years old. To support her, he leased a small piece of ground, which he converted into a 
nursery and garden, and to shelter her, he raised with his own 'hands that humble abode where 
she gave birth to her eldest son. 

The elder Burns was a well-informed, silent, austere man, who endured no idle gaiety, nor 
indecorous language : while he relaxed somewhat the hard, stern creed of the Covenanting times, 
he enforced all the work-day, as well as sabbath-day observances, which the Calvinistic kirk 
requires, and scrupled at promiscuous dancing, as the staid of our own day scruple at the waltz, 
(lis wife was of a milder mood : she was blest with a singular fortitude of temper ; was as devout 
ji heart, as she was .calm of mind ; and loved, while busied in her household concerns, to sweeten 
the bitterer moments of life, by chanting the songs and ballads of her country, of which her store 
was great. The garden and nursery prospered so much, that he was induced to widen his views 
and by the help of his kind landlord, the laird of Doonholm, and the more questionable aid o' 
borrowed money", he entered upon a neighbouring farm, named Mount Giiphant, extending to a 
\jundred acres. This was in 1765 ; but the land was hungry and sterile; the seasons proved rain; 
and rou;^h; the toil was certain, the reward unsure; when to his sorrow, the laird of Doonholm — 
a generous Ferguson, — died : the strict terms of the lease, as well as the rent, were exacted by 
A harsh factor, and with his wife and children, he was obliged, after a losing struggle of six ^ears, 
to relinquish the farm, ai>d seek shelter on the grounds of Lochlea, some ten miles off, In the 
parish of Tarbolton. When, in after-days, men's characters were in the hands of his eldest son 
the scoHudrel factor sat for that lasting portrait of insolence and wrong, in the " Twa Dog«." 

In this new farm William Burns seemed to strike root, and thrive. He was strong of b< ij and 
krdeut of tnind ; every day brought increase of vigour to his three sons, who, though verj young, 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNI^. 



ftlrendy put their hands to the plough, the reap-hook, and the flail. But it seemed that nothing 
which he undertook was decreed in the end to prosper : after four seasons of prosperity a change 
ensued: the farm was far from cheap; the gains under any lease were then so little, that- tb« 
loss of a few pounds was ruinous to a- farmer: bad seed and wet seasons had their usual influence: 
' The g'Dom of hermits and the moil of galley-slaves," as the poet, alluding to those days^ said, 
were en lured to no purpose; when, to crown all, a difference arose between the landlord and tha 
tenant, as to the terms of the lease ; and the early days of the poet, and the declining years of 
his father, were harassed by disputes, in which sensitive minds are sure to suffer. 

Amid these labours and disputes, the poet's father remembered the worth of religious and morfu 
nstructioQ : he took part of this upon himself. A week-day in Lochlea wore the sober looks of 
<i Sunday : he read the Bible and explained, as intelligent peasants are accustomed to do, the 
sense, when dark or difficult ; he loved to discuss the spiritual meanings, and gaze on the mystical 
splendours of the Revelaticns. He was aided in these labours, nrst, by the school-master of 
A.lloway-mill, near the Dodn ; secondly, by John Murdoch, stadem; of aivinity, who undertook to 
teach arithmetic, grammar, French, and Latin, to the boys of Lochlea, and the sons of five 
neighbouring farmers. Murdoch, who was an enthusiast in learning, much of a pedant, and such 
a judge of genius that he thought wit should always be laughing, and poetry wear an eternal 
smile, performed his task well : he found Robert to be quick in apprehension, and not afraid to 
study when knowledge was the reward. He taught him to turn verse into its natural prose order ; 
to supply all the ellipses, and not to desist till the sense was clear and plain : he also, in their 
walks, told him the names of difi'ereiit objects both in Latin and French; and though his know- 
ledge of these languages never amounted to much, he approached the grammar of the English 
tongue, through the former, which was of material use to him, in his poetic compositions. Burns 
was, even in those early days, a sort of enthusiast in all that concerned the glory of Scotland ; 
he used to fancy himself a soldier of the days of the Wallace and the Bruce : loved to strut after 
the bag-pipe and the drum, and read of the bloody sti'uggles of his country for freedom and 
existence, till "a Scottish prejudice," he says, " was poured into my veins, which will boil there 
till the flood-gates of life are shut in eternal rest." 

In this mood of mind Burns was unconsciously approaching the land of poesie. In addition to 
the histories of the AVallace and the Bruce, he found, on the shelves of his neighbours, not onl" 
whole bodies of divinity, and sermons withoux liruit, but the works of some of the best English, 
as well as Scottish poets, together with songs and ballads innumerable. On these he loved to 
pore whenever a moment of leisure came ; nor was verse his sole favourite ; he desired to drink 
knowledge at any fountain, and Guthrie's Grammar, Dickson on Agriculture, Addison's Spectator, 
Locke on the Human Understanding, and Taylor's Scripture Doctrine of Original Sin, were as 
welcome to his heart as Shakspeare, Milton, Pope, Thomson, and Young. There is a mystery in 
the workings of genius : with these poets in his head and hand, we see not that he has advanced 
one step isi the way in which he was soon to walk, " Highland Mary" and '-Tarn o' Shanter" 
sprang from other inspirations. 

Burns lifts up the veil himself, from the studies which made him a poet. "In my boyish 
days," he says to Moore, "I owed much to an old woman (Jenny Wilson) who resided in the 
family, remarkable for her credulity and superstition. She had, I suppose, the largest collection 
in the country of tales and songs, concerning devils, ghosts, fairies, brownies, witches, warlocks, 
npujikies, kelpies, elfcandles, dead-lights, wraiths, apparitions, cantraips, giants, enchanted 
towers, dragons, and other trumpery. This cultivated the latent seeds of poesie ; but had so 
strong an efi"ect upon my imagination that to this hour, in my nocturnal rambles, I sometimes 
keep a look-out on suspicious places." Here we have the young poet takiag lessons in the classit, 
lore of his native land : in the school of Janet Wilson he profited largely ; her tales gave a hue, 
bU their own, to many noble efi"usions. But her teaching was at the heai-th-stone : when he waa 
in the fields, either driving a cart or walking to labour, he had ever in his hand a collection of 
songs, such as any stall in the land could supply him with ; and over these he pored, ballad by 
ballad, and verse by verse, noting the true, tender, and the natural sublime from aff'ectation and 
teistian " To this," he said, *' I am convinced that I owe much of my critic craft, such as it is." 



LETTER TO HIS FATHER. 



fiis mother, too, unconsciously led him in the ways of the muse : she loved to recite or sing to him 
% strange, but clever ballad, called " the Life and Age of Man :" this strain of piety and imagina- 
lion was in his mind when he- wrote " Man was made to Mourn." 

He found other teachers — of a tenderer nature and softer influence. " You know." he stiys to 
Moore, "our country custom of coupling a man and woman together as partners in the labours 
of harvest. In my fifteenth autumn my partner was a bewitching creature, a year youngei than 
myself- she was in truth a bonnie, sweet, sonsie lass, and unwittingly to herself, initiated me io 
that delicious passion, which, in spite of acid disappointment, gin-horse prudence, and book-worrj 
philosophy, I hold to be the first of humah joys. How she caught the contagion I cannot tell; I 
Q«ver expressly said I loved her : indeed I did not know myself why I liked so much to loiter 
behind with her, when returning in the evenings from our labours ; why the tones of her voice 
made my heart strings thrill like an jEolian harp, and particularly why my pulse beat such a 
furious ratan, when I looked and fingered over her little hand, to pick out the cruel nettle-stinga 
and thistles. Among other love-inspiring qualities, she sang sweetly, and it was her favourite 
reel to which I attempted to give an embodied vehicle in rhyme ; thus with me began love and 
verse." This intercourse with the fair part of the creation, was to his slumbering emotions, a 
voice from heaven to call them into life and poetry. 

From the school of traditionary lore and love. Burns now went to a rougher academy. Lochlea, 
though not producing fine crops of corn, was considered excellent for flax , and while the culti- 
vation of this commodity was committed to his father and his brother Gilbert, he was sent to 
Irvine at Midsummer, 1781, to learn the trade of a flax-dresser, under one Peacock, kinsman to 
his mother. Some time before, he had* spent a portion of a summer at a school in Kirkoswald, 
learning mensvu-ation and land-surveying, where he had mingled in scenes of sociality with 
smugglers, and enjoyed the pleasure of a silent walk, under the moon, with the young and the 
beautiful. At Irvine he laboured by day to acquire a knowledge of his business, and at night he 
associated with the gay and the thoughtless, with whom he learnt to empty his glass, and indulge 
>n free discourse on topics forbidden at Lochlea. He had one small room for a lodging, for which 
ne gave a shilling a week : meat he seldom tasted, and his food consisted chiefly of oatmeal and 
potatoes sent from his father's house. In a letter to his father, written with great purity and 
Bimplicity of style, he thus gives a picture of h'mself, mental and bodily: " Honoured Sir, I have 
purposely delayed writing, in the hope that j. should have the pleasure of seeing you on new 
years' day, but work comes so hard upon us that I do not choose to be absent on that account. 
My health is nearly the same as when you were here, only my sleep is a little sounder, and on 
the whole, I am rather better than otherwise, though I mend by very slow degrees: the weak- 
ness of my nerves had so debilitated my mind that I dare neither review past wants nor look for- 
ward into futurity, for the least anxiety or perturbation in my breast produces most unhappy 
eS'ects on my whole frame. Sometimes indeed, when for an hour or two my spirits are a little 
lightened, I glimmer a little into futurity ; but my principal and indeed my only pleasurable 
employment is looking backwards and forwards in a moral and religious way. I am quite trans- 
ported at the thought that ere long, perhaps very soon, I shall bid an eternal adieu to all the 
pains and uneasinesses, and disquietudes of this weary life. As for the world, I despair of evei 
making a figure in it: I am not formed for the bustle of the busy, nor the flutter of the gay. 1 
foresee that poverty and obscurity probably await me, and I am in some measure prepared and 
iaily preparing to meet them. I have but just time and paper to return you my grateful thanks 
for tte lessons of virtue and piety you have given me, which were but too much neglected at the 
time of giving them, but which, I hope, have been remembered ere it is yet too late." Thig 
remarkable letter was written in the twenty-second year of his age ; it alludes to the illness 
which seems to have been the companion of his youth, a nervous headache, brought oh by con- 
•tant toil and anxiety ; and it speaks of the melancholy which is the common attendant of genius, 
and its sensibilities, aggravated by despair of distinction. The catastrophe which happened ere 
this letter was well in his father's hand, accords ill with quotntions from the Bible, and hopes 
ixed in heaven: — "A? we gave," he says, "a welcome caroii-.J to the new year, the shop took 
(re, and burni to ashes, and I was left, like a true poet, not worth a sixpence." 



xxvl LIFE OF EGBERT BURNS. 



Tills disaster was followed by one more grievous : his father was well in years when he wai 
married, and age and a constitution injured by toil and disappointment, began to press liiu) 
iown, ere his sons had grown up to man's estate. On all sides the clouds began to darken ■ 
the farm was unprosperous : the speculations in flax failed; and the landlord of Lochlea, raiting 
a question upon the meaning of the lease, concerning rotation of crop, pushed the matter to a 
lawsuit, alike ruinous to a poor man either in its success or its failure. "After three years 
kossiug and whirling," says Burns, "in the vortex of litigation, my father was just saved from 
the horrors of a jail by a consumption, which, after two years' promises, kindly stept in and 
jarried him away to where the ' wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest.' His all 
rent among the hell-hounds that prowl in the kennel of justice. The finishing e^il which brought 
ap the rear of this infernal file, was my constitutional melancholy being increased to such a 
degree, that for three months I was in a state of mind scarcely to be envied by the hopeless 
wretches who have got their mittimus, ' Depart from me, ye cursed.' " 

Robert Burns was now the head of his father's house. He gathered together the little that 
law and misfortune had spared, and took the farm of Mossgiel, near Mauchline,- containing one 
hundred and eighteen acres, at a rent of ninety pounds a year: his nrother and sisters took the 
domestic superintendence of home, barn, and byre ; and he associated his brother Gilbert in the 
labours of the land. It was made a joint afifair: the poet was young, willing, and vigorous, and 
excelled in ploughing, sowing, reaping, mowing, and thrashing. His wages were' fixed at seven 
pounds per annum, and such for a time was his care and frugality, that he never exceeded this 
small allowance. He purchased books on farming, held conversations with the old and the know- 
ing ; and said unto himself, " I shall be prudent and wise, and my shadow shall increase in the 
land." But it was not decreed that these resolutions were to endure, and that he was to become 
a mighty agriculturist in the west. Farmer. Attentijjn, as the proverb says, is a good farmer, all 
the world over, and Burns was such by fits and by starts. But he who writes an ode on the sheep 
he is about to shear, a poem on the flower that he covers with the furrow, who sees visions on his 
way to market, who makes rhymes on the horse he is about to yoke, and a song on the girl who 
shows the whitest hands among his reapers, has small chance of leading a market, or of being 
laird of the fields he rents. The dreams of Burns were of the muses, and not of rising markets, 
of golden locks rather than of yellow corn ; he had other faults. It is not known that William 
Burns was aware befor^ his death that his eldest son had sinned in rhyme ; but we have Gilbert's 
assurance, that his father went to the grave in ignorance of his son's errors of a less venial kind 
— unwitting, that he was soon to give a two-fold proof of both in "Rob the Rhymer's Address to 
his Bastard Child" — a poem less decorous than witty. 

The dress and condition of Burns when he became a poet were not at all poetical, in the minstrel 
meaning of the word. His clothes, coarse and homely, were made from home-grown wool, shorn 
ofi' his own slieeps' backs, carded and spun at his own fireside, woven by the village weaver, and, 
when not of natvril hodden-gray, dyed a half-blue in the village vat. They were shaped and 
eewed by the district tailor, who usually wrought at the rate of a groat a day and his food ; and 
as the wool wag coarse, so also was the workmanship. The linen which he wore was home-grown, 
horae-hackled, home-spun, home-woven, and home-bleached, and, unless desigaed for Sunday 
ase, was of coarse, strong harn, to suit the tear and wear of barn and field. His shoes came from 
rustic tanpits, for most farmers then prepared their own leather ; were armed, sole and heel, with 
teavy, broad-headed nails, to endure the clod and the read: as hats were then little in use, save 
among small lairds or country gentry, westland heads were commonly covered with a coarse, 
broad, blue bonnet, with a stopple on its flat crown, made in thousands at Kilmarnock, and known 
in all lands by th« name of scone bonnets. Hip plaid was a handsome red and white check — • 
for pride in poets, he said, was no sin — ^prepared of fine wool with more than common care by 
the hands of his mother and sisters, and woven with more skill than the village weaver was 
■sually required to exert. His dwelling was in keeping with his dress, a low, thatched house, 
with a kitchen, a bedroom and closet, with floors of kneaded clay, and ceilings of moorland turf; 
tk few books on a shelf, thumbed by many a thumb ; a few hams drying above head in the smok^ 



HIS EAKLIER /EUSES. 



whiah was in no haste to get out at the roof — a wooden settle, some oak chairs, chaff beds well 
covered with blankets, with a fire of peat and wood burning at a distance from the gable waH", ob 
khe middle of the floor. His food was as homely as his habitation, and consisted chiefly of oat- 
meal-porridge, barley-broth, and potatoes, and milk. How the muse happened to visit him io 
this clay biggin, take a fancy to a clouterly peasant, and teach him strains of consummate beautj 
and elegance, must ever be a matter of wonder to all those, and they are not few, who hold that 
aoble (sentiments and heroic deeds are the exclusive portion of the gently nursed and the fa* 
'lescended. 

Of the earlier verses of Burns few are preserved : when composed, he put them on paper, but 
ke kept them to himself: though a poet at sixteen, he seems not to have made even his broth«t 
his confidante till he became a man, and his judgment had ripened. He, however, made a little 
clasped paper book his treasurer, and under the head of "Observations, Hints, Songs, and 
Scraps of Poetry," we find many a wayward and impassioned verse, songs rising little above the 
humblest country strain, or bursting into an elegance and a beauty worthy of the highest of 
minstrels. The first words noted down are the stanzas which he composed on his fair companion 
of the harvest-field, out of whose hands he loved to remove the nettle-stings and the thistles : the 
prettier song, beginning "Now westlin win's and slaughtering guns," written on the lass of 
Kirkoswald, with whom, instead of learning mensuration, he chose to wander under the light of 
the moon: a strain better still, inspired by the charms of a neighbouring maiden, of the name 
of Annie Ronald ; another, of equal merit, arising out of his nocturnal adventures among the 
tasses of the west; and, finally, that crowning glory of all his lyric compositions, "Green grow 
the rashes." This little clasped book, however, seems not to have been made his confidante till 
his twenty-third or twenty-fourth year: he probably admitted to its pages only the strains which 
he loved most, or such as had taken a place in his memory : at whatever age it was commenced, 
he had then begun to estimate his own character, and intimate his fortunes, for he calls himself 
in its pages " a man who had little art in making money, and still less in keeping it." 

We have not been told how welcome the incense of his songs rendered him to the rustic maidens 
of Kyle : women are not apt to be won by the charms of verse ; they have little sympathy with 
dreamers on Parnassus, and allow themselves to be influenced by something more substantial than 
the roses and lilies of the muse. Burns had other claims to their regard than those arising from poetio 
Bifill : he was tall, young, good-looking, with dark, bright eyes, and words and wit at will : he had a 
sarcastic sally for all lads who presumed to cross his path, and a soft, persuasive word for all lassea 
on whom he fixed his fancy : nor was this all — he was adventurous and bold in love trystes and 
love excursions : long, rough roads, stormy nights, flooded rivers, and lonesome places, were no 
letts to him ; and when the dangers or laboiirs of the way were braved, he was alike skilful m 
eluding vigilant aunts, wakerife mothers, and envious or suspicious sisters : for rivals he had a 
blow as ready as he had a word, and was familiar with snug stack-yards, broomy glens, and nocks 
of hawthorn and honeysuckle, where maidens love to be wooed. This rendered him dearer to 
woman's heart than all the lyric effusion^ of his fancy; and when we add to such allurements, a 
warm, flowing, and persuasive eloquence, we need not wonder that woman listened and was won ; 
that one of the most charming damsels of the West said, an hour with him in the dark was worth 
a lifetime of light with any other body; or that the accomplished and beautiful Duchess of 
& )rdon declared, in a latter day, that no man ever carried her so completely oflf her f^t as 
R.ibert Burns. 

It is one of the delusions of the poet's critics and biographers, that the sources of his inspira- 
tion are to be fotmd in the great classic poets of the land, with some of whom he had from his 
youth been familiar : there is little or no trace of them in any of his compositions. He read 
and vrondered — he warmed his fancy at their flame, he corrected his own natural taste by their^ 
\iut he neither copied nor imitated, and there are but two or three allusions to Young and Shak- 
ipeare in all the range of his verse. He could not but feel that he was the scholar of a difiFerent 
«chool, and that his thirst was to be slaked at other fountains. The language in which those 
p'eat bards embodied their thoughts was unapproachable to an Ayrshire peasant ; it was to him 
Ml an almost foreign tongue : he had to think and feel in the not ungraceful or inharmcnioug 



sxviii LIFE OF EOBEKT BCRNS. 

language of his own vale, and then, in a manner, tran'ilate it into that of Poj e or of Thomsoxk, 
with \he additional difficulty of finding English words to express the exact meaning of those ol 
Scotland, which had chiefly been retained because equivalents could not be found in the mor« 
elegant and grammatical tongue. Such strains as those of the polished Pope or the sublimes 
Milton were beyond his power, less from deficiency of genius than from lack of language : ha 
eould, indeed, write English with ease and fluency ; but when he desired to be tender or impas- 
tie ned, tc persuade or subdue, he had recourse to the Scottish, and he found it sufficient. 

The goddesses or the Dalilahs of the young poet's song were, like the language in which he 
©elebratfc. them, the produce of the district; not dames high and exalted, but lasses of the bam 
uid of the byre, who had never been in higher company than that of shepherds or ploughmen, 
ox Janoed in a politer assembly than that of their fellow-peasants, on a barn-floor, to the sound 
of the district fiddle. Nor even of these did he choose the loveliest to lay out the wealth of hia 
verse upon : he has been accused, by his brother among others, of lavishing the colours of hia 
fancy on very ordinary faces. " He had always," says Gilbert, " a jealousy of people who were 
richer than himself ; his love, therefore, seldom settled pn persons of this description. When he 
selected any one, out of the sovereignty of his good pleasure, to whom he should pay his parti- 
cular attention, she was instantly invested with a sufficient stock of charms oUt of the plentiful 
stores of his own imagination : and there was often a great dissimilitude between his fair capti 
vator, as she appeared to others and as she seemed when invested with the attributes he gave 
her." "My heart," he himself, speaking of those days, observes, "was completely tinder, and 
was eternally lighted up by some goddess or other." Yet, it must be acknowledged that sufficient 
room exists for believing that Burns and his brethren of the West had very diiferent notions of 
the captivating and the beautiful ; while they were moved by rosy cheeks and looks of rustic 
health, he was moved, like a sculptor, by beauty of form or by harmony of motion, and by 
expression, which lightened up .ordinary features and rendered them captivating. Such, I have 
been told, were several of the lasses of the West, to whom, if he did not surrender his heart, ha 
rendered homage ; and both elegance of form and beauty of face were visible to all in those of 
whom he afterward* sang — the Hamiltons and the Burnets of Edinburgh, and the Millers and 
M'Murdos of the Nith. 

The mind of Burns took now a wider range : he had sung of the maidens of Kyle in strains 
not likely soon to die, and though not weary of the softnesses of love, he desired to try his genius 
on matters of a sterner kind — what those subjects were he tells us ; they were homely and at 
hand, of a native nature and of Scottish growth : places celebrated in Roman story, vales made 
famous in Grecian song — hills of vines and groves of myrtle had few charms for him. " I am 
hurt," thus he writes in August, 1785, "to see other towns, rivers, woods, .and haughs of Scot- 
land immortalized in song, while my dear native county, the ancient Baillieries of Carrick, Kyle, 
and Cunningham, famous in both ancient and modern times for a gallant and warlike race of 
inhabitants — a county where civil and religious liberty have ever found their first support and 
their asylum — a county, the birth-place of many famouf philosophers, soldiers, and statesmen, 
and the scene of many great events recorded in history, particularly the actions of the glorious 
Wallace — yet we have never had one Scotch poet of any eminence to make the fertile banks of 
Irvine, the romantic woodlands and sequestered scenes of Ayr, and the mountainous source and 
Windini" sweep of the Doon, emulate Tay, Forth, Ettrick, and Tweed. This is a complaint I would 
gladly remedy, but, alas! I am far unequal to the task, both in genius and education." T6 fill 
op with glowing verse the outline which this sketch indicates, was to raise the long-laid spirit of 
national song — to waken a strain to which the whole land would yield response — a miracle unat- 
tempted — certainly unperformed — since the days of the Gentle Shepherd. It is true that the 
tongue of the muse had at no time been wholly silent ; that now and then a, burst of sublime woe, 
like the song of " Mary, weep no more for me," and, of lasting merriment and humour, like that 
of " Tibbie Fowler," proved that the fire of natural poesie smouldered, if it did not blaze ; while 
Ihe social strains of the unfortunate Fergusson revived in the city, if not in the field, the memory 
»f him who sang the " Monk and the Miller's wife." But notwithstanding these and other pro- 
iuctions of equal merit, Scottish poesie, it must be owned, had lost much of its original ecetasj 



MOSSGIEL. 



ui4 fervour, and that the boldest efforts of the muse no more equalled the songs of Imnhar, ol 
Douglas, of Lyndsay, and of James the Fifth, than the sound of an artificial cascade resemblei 
the undying thunders of Colra. 

. To accomplish this required an acquaintance with man beyond what the forge, the change-house, 
and the market-place of the village supplied ; a look further than the barn-yard and the furrowed 
field, and a livelier knowledge and deeper feeling of history than, probably. Burns ever possessed. 
To all ready and accessible sources of knowledge he appears to have had recourse ; he sought 
•siatter for his muse in the meetings, religious as well as social, of the district — consorted vrith 
fitaid matrons, grave plodding farmers — with those who preached as well as those who listened — 
irith sharp-tongued attorneys, who laid down the law over aMauchline gill — with country squires, 
whose wisdom was great in the game-laws, and in contested elections — and with roving smug- 
glers, who at that time hung, as a cloud, on all the western coast of Scotland. In the companj 
of farmers and fellow-peasants, he witnessed scenes which he loved to embody in verse, saw pic- 
tures of peace and joy, now woven into the web of his song, and had a poetic impulse given to 
him both by cottage devotion and cottage merriment. If he was familiar with love and all itfl 
outgoings and incomings — had met his lass in the midnight shade, or walked with her under the 
moon, or braved a stormy night and a haunted road for her sake — he was as well acquainted with 
the joys which belong to social intercourse, when instruments of music speak to the feet, when 
the reek of punchbowls gives a tongue to the staid and demure, and bridal festivity, and harvest- 
fiomes, bid a whole valley lift up its voice and be glad. It is more difficult to decide what poet'i 
use he could make of his intercourse with that loose and lawless class of men, who, from love of 
gain, broke the laws and braved the police of their country : that he found among smugglers, aa 
he says, "men of noble virtues,- magnanimity, generosity, disinterested friendship, and modesty," 
is easier to believe than that he escaped the contamination of their sensual manners and prodi- 
gality. The people of Kyle regarded tliis conduct with suspicion : they were not to be expected 
te know that when Burns ranted and boused with Smugglers, conversed with tinkers hiiddled in a 
kiln, or listened to the riotous mirth of a batch of "randie gaugrel bodies" as they "toomed 
their powks and pawned their duds," for liquor inPoosie Nansie's, he was taking sketches for the 
future entertainment and instruction of the world ; they could not foresee that from all this moral 
strength and poetic beauty would arise. 

• While meditating something better than a ballad to his mistress's eyebrow, he did not neglect 
to lay out the little skill he had in cultivating the grounds of Mossgiel. The prosperity in which 
he found himself in the first and second seasons, induced him to hope that good fortune had not 
yet forsaken him : a genial summer and a good market seldom come together to the farmer, but 
at first they came to Burns ; and to show that he was worthy of them, he bought books on agri 
culture, calculated rotation of crops, attended sales, held the plough with diligence, used the 
scythe, the reap-hook, and the flail, with skill, and the malicious even began to say that there 
was something more in him than wild sallies of wit and foolish rhymes. But the farm lay high, 
the bottom was wet, and in a third season, indifferent seed and a wet harvest robbetl him at once 
of half his crop ; he seems to have regarded this as an intimation from above, that nothing which 
he undertook would prosper : and consoled himself with joyous friends and with the society cf 
the muse. The judgment cannot be praise! which selected a farm with a wet cold bottom, an<l 
Bowed it with unsound seed ; but that man who despairs because a wet season robs him of tht 
frnite of the field, is unfit for the warfare of life, where fortitude is as much required as hj » 
general on a field of battle, when the tide of success threatens to flow against him. The pcet 
seems to have believed, very early in life, that he was none of the elect of Mammon ; that he was :oo 
much of % genius ever to acquire wealth by steady labour, or by, as he loved +o caU it, gin-horsft 
f rudence, or grubbing industry. 

And yet there were hours and days in which Burns, even when the rain fell on his unhoused 
Bheaves, did not wholly despair of himself: he laboured, nay sometimes he slaved on his farm; 
find at intervals of toil, sought to embellish his miAd with such knowledge as might be useful, 
should chance, the goddess who ruled his lot, drop him upon some of the higher places of thfl 
land. He had, while he lived at Tarbolton, united with some half-dozen young men, all sons of 



LIFE OF ROBERT "BURNS. 



farmers in that neighbourhood, in'forraing a clvib, of which the object was to charm &way a f«n 
evening hours in the week with agreeable chit-chat, and the discussion of topics of economy o< 
love. Of this little society the poet was president, and the first question they were called on to 
settle was this, "Suppose a young man bred a farmer, but without any fortune, has it in liis 
power to marry either of two women ; the one a girl of large fortune, but neither haAdsome in 
person, nor agreeable in conversation, but who can manage the hotisehold affairs of a farm well 
enoiigh ; the other of them, a girl every way agreeable in person, conversation,' and behaviour, 
but without any fortune, which of them shall he choose?" This question was started by the 
poet, and once every week the club were called to the consideration of matters connected with 
rural life and industry : their expenses were limited to threepence a week ; and till the departure 
of Burns to the distant Mgssgiel, the club continued to live and thrive ; on his removal it lost the 
spirit which gave it birth, and was heard of no more ; but its aims and its usefulness were revived 
in Mauchline, where the poet was induced to establish a society which only differed from the 
^ther in spending the moderate fines arising from non-attendance, on books, instead of liquor. 
Here, too, Burns was the president, and. the members were chiefly the sons of husbandmen, whom 
he found, he said, more natural in their manners, and more agreeable than the self-sufficient 
mechanics of villages and towns, who were ready to dispute on all topics, and inclined to be con 
vinced on none. This club had the pleasiire of subscribing for the first edition of the works of 
its great associate. It has been questioned by his first biographer, whether the refinement »f 
mind, which follows the reading of books of eloquence and delicacy, — the mental improvement 
resulting from such calm discussions as the Tarbolton and Mauchline clubs indulged in, was not 
injurious to men engaged in the barn and at the plough. A well-ordered mind wijl be strength- 
ened, as well as embellished, by elegant knowledge, while over those naturally barren and ungenial 
all that is refined or noble will pass as a sunny shower scuds over lumps of granite, bringing 
neither warmth nor life. 

In the account which the poet gives to Moore of his early poems, he says little p.? out his exqui- 
site lyrics, and less about "The Death and dying Words of Poor Mailie," or her "E?egy," the 
first of his poems where the inspiration of the muse is visible ; but he speaks with exultation of 
the fame which those indecorous sallies, " Holy Willie's Prayer" and " The Holy Tulzie" bmught 
from some of the clergy, and the people of Ayrshire. The west of Scotland is ever in the v.an. 
when matters either political or religious are agitated. Calvinism was shaken, at this time, with 
a controversy among its professors, of which it is enough to say, that while one party rigidly 
adhered to the word and letter of the Confession of Faith, and preached up the palmy and whole- 
some days of the Covenant, the other sought to soften the harsher rules and observances of tli« 
kirk, and to bring moderation and charity into its discipline as well as its councils. Both believed 
themselves right, both were loud and hot, and personal, — bitter with a bitterness only known in 
religious controversy. The poet sided with the professors of the New Light, as the more tolerant 
were called, and handled the professors of the Old Light, as the other party were named, with 
the most unsparing severity. For this he had sufficient cause: — he had experienced the merci- 
lessness of kii-k-discipline, when his frailties caused him to visit the stool of repentance ; and 
moreover his friend Gavin Hamilton, a writer in Mauchline, had been sharjily censured by the 
same authorities, for daring to gallop on Sundays. Moodie, of Riccarton, and Pu^isel, of Kilmar- 
nock, were the first who tasted of the poet's wrath. They, though professors of the Old Light, 
had quarrelled, and, it is added, fought: " The Holy Tulzie," which recorded, gave at the same 
time wings to the scandal; while for "Holy Willie," an elder of Mauchline, and an austere and 
hollow pretender to righteousness, he reserved the fiercest of all his lampoons. In " Holy Willie's 
Prayer," he lays a burning hand on the terrible doctrine of predestination : this is a satire, daring, 
personal, and profane. Willie claims praise in the singular, acknowledges folly in the plural, 
and makes neaven accountable for his sins ! In a similar strain of undevout satire, he congi-atu- 
lates Goudie, of Kilmarnock, on his Essays on Revealed Religion. These poems, particularly the 
two latter, are the sharpest lampoons in the language. 

While drudging in the cause of the New Light controversialists, Bums was not unconscJonsly 
i+T engthening his hands for worthier toils: the applause which selfish divines bestowed on- hif 



THE HOLY FAIE— HALLOWEEN. 



xxxl 



intty, but graceless effusions, could not be enough for one ■who knew how fleeting the fame was 
whicli came from the heat of party disputes ; nor was he insensible that songs of a beauty unknown 
for a century to national poesy, had been \mregarded in the hue and cry which arose on account 
of " Holy Willie's Prayer" and "The Holy Tulzie." He hesitated to drink longer out of the 
agitated puddle of Calvinistic controversy, he resolved to slake his thirst at the pure well-springa 
of patriot feeling and domestic love ; and accordingly, in the last and best of his controversial 
compositions, he rose out of the lower regions of lampoon into the upper air of true poetry. 
''The Holy Fair," though stained in one or two verses with personalities, exhibits a scene glowing 
with character and incident and life : the aim of the poem is not so much to satirize one or two 
Old Light divines, as to expose and rebuke those almost indecent festivities, which in too many 
of the westeln parishes accompanied the administration of the sacrament. In the earlier days 
of the church, when men were staid and sincere, it was, no doubt, an impressive sight to see rank 
succeeding rank, of the old and the young, all calm and all devout, seated before the tent of tie 
oreacher, in the sunny hours of June, listening to his eloquence, or partaking of the mystic bread 
ind wine ; but in these our latter days, when discipline is relaxed, along with the sedate and the 
pious come swarms of the idle and the profligate, whom no eloquence can edify and no solemn 
rite affect. On these, and such as these, the poet has poured his satire ; and since this desirable 
reprehension tlie Holy Fairs, east as well as west, have become more decorous, if not mora 
devout. 

His controversial sallies were accompanied, or followed, by a series of poems which showed 
that national character and manners, as Lockhart has truly and happily said, were once more in 
the hands of a national poet. These compositions are both numerous and various : they record 
the poet's own experience and emotions; they exhibit the highest moral feeling, the purest patri 
otic sentiments, and a deep sympathy with the fortunes, both here and hereafter of his fellow-men, 
they delineate domestic manners, man's stern as well as social hours, and mingle the serious with 
the joyous, the sarcastic with the solemn, the mournful with the pathetic, the amiable with the 
gay, and all with an ease and unaffected force and fi:eedom known only to the genius of Shak- 
speare. In " The Twa Dogs" he seeks to reconcile the labourer to his lot, and intimates, by 
examples drawn from the hall as well as the cottage, that happiness resides in the humblest abodes, 
and is even partial to the clouted shoe. In " Scotch Drink" he excites man to love his country, 
by precepts both heroic and social ; and proves that while wine and brandy are the tipple of 
slaves, whiskey and ale are the drink of the free : sentiments of a similar kind distinguish hia 
"Earnest Cry and Prayer to the Scotch Representatives in the House of Commons," each of whom 
he exhorts by name to defend the remaining liberties and immunities of his country. A higher 
tone distinguishes the "Address to the Deil:" he records all the names, and some of them ar# 
strange ones ; and all the acts, and some of them are as whimsical as they are terrible, of this 
far kenned and noted personage ; to these he adds some of the fiend's doings as they stand in 
Scripture, together with his own experiences ; and concludes by a hope, as unexpected as merciful 
and relenting, that Satan may not be exposed to an eternity of torments. "The Dream" is a 
humorous sally, and may be almost regarded as prophetic. The poet feigns himself present, in 
slumber, at the Royal birth-day; and supposes that he addresses his majesty, on his household 
matters as well as the affairs of the nation. Some of the princes, it has been satirically hinted, 
behaved afterwards in such a way as if they wished that the scripture of the Burns shoull oe 
fulfilled: in this strain he has imitated the license and equalled the wit of some of the el&er 
Scottish Poets 

"■The lision" id wholly serious ; it exhibits the poet in one of those fits of despondency which 
the dull, who have no misgivings, never know: he dwells with sarcastic bitterness on the opportu 
nities which, for the sake of song, he has neglected of becoming wealthy, and is drawing a sad 
parallel between rags and riches, when the muse steps in and cheers his despondency, by assuring 
him of undying fame. " Halloween" is a strain of a more homely kind, recording the super 
Btitious beliefs, and no less superstitious doings of Old Scotland, on that night, when witches and 
elves and evil spirits are let loose among the children of men : it reaches far back into manners 
Mid customs, and is a picture, cirious and valuable. The tastes and feelings of husbandmen 



LIFF OF EGBERT BURNS. 



Inspired " The old Farmer's A^ I'p.ap tr hip, old mare Maggie," which exhibits some pleasing recol*. 
lections of his days of courtship and hours of sociality. The calm, tranquil picture of household 
happiness and devotion in " the Cotter's Saturday Night," has induced Hogg, among others, to 
believe that it has l»ss than usual of the spirit of the poet, but it has all the spirit that was required ; 
the toil of the week has ceased, the labourer has returned to his well-ordered home — his " cozie 
ingle and Lis clean hearth-stane," — and with his wife and children beside him, turns his thoughts 
to the praise of that Ood to whom he owes all : this he performs with a reverence and an awe, 
at once natural, national, and poetic. " The Mouse" is a brief and happy and very moving poem: 
happy, for it delineates, with wonderful truth and life, the agitation of the mouse when the coulter 
broke into its abode ; and moving, for the poet takes the lesson of ruin to himself, and feels the 
present and dreads the future. " The Mountain Daisy," once, more properly, called by Burna 
" The Gowan," resembles " The Mouse" in incident and in moral, and is equally happy, in lan- 
guage and conception. "The Lament" is a dark, and all but tragic page, from the poet's own 
life. "Man was madt to Mourn" takes the part of the humble and the homeless, against the 
coldness and selfishness of the wealthy and the powerful, a favourite topic of meditation with 
Burns. He refrained, for awhilo, from making "Death and Doctor Hornbook" public; a P'./^m 
which deviates from the offent^iveness of personal satire, into a strain of humour, at once airy 
and original. 

His epistles in verse may be reckoned amongst his happiest productions : they are written in 
all moods of mind, and are, by turns, lively and sad; careless and serious; — now giving advice, 
then taking it; laughirg a', learning, and lamenting its want; scofiBng at propriety and wealth, 
yet admitting, that witXc at the one he cannot be wise, nor wanting the other, independent. The 
Epistle to David Fiilp/r is the first of these compositions : the poet has no news to tell, and no 
eerious question to osX : he has only to communicate his own emotions of joy, or of sorrow, and 
these he relates and discusses with singular elegance as well as ease, twining, at the same time, into 
the fabric of liig composition, agreeable allusions to the taste and affections of his correspondent. 
He seems to have rated the intellect of Sillar as the highest among his rustic friends : he pays him 
more deference, and addresses him in a higher vein than he observes to others. The Epistles to 
Lapraik, to Smith, and to Rankine, are in a more familiar, or social mood, and lift the veil from 
the darkness of the poet's condition, and exhibit a mind of first-rate power, groping, and that 
surely, its way to distinction, in spite of humility of birth, obscurity of condition, and the cold- 
ness of the wealthy or the titled. The epistles of other poets owe some of their fame to the rank 
or the reputation of those to whom they are addressed ; those of Burns are written, one and all, 
to nameless and undistinguished men. Sillar was a country schoolmaster, Lapraik a moorland 
laird, Smith a small shop-keeper, and Rankine a farmer, who loved a gill and a joke. Yet 
these men were the chief friends, the only literary associates of the poet, during those early 
years, in which, with some exceptions, his finest works we're written. 

Burns, while he was writing the poems, the chief of which we have named, was a labour.aj 
husbandman on the little farm of Mossgiel, a pursuit which afiFords but few leisure hours for either 
reading or pondering ; but to him the stubble-field was musing-ground, and the walk behind the 
plough, a twilight saunter on Parnassus. As, with a careful hand and a steady eye, he guided 
his horses, and saw an evenly furrow turned up by the share, his thoughts were on other themes ; 
he was straying in haunted glens, when spirits have power-r-looking in fancy on the laFsea 
"ekelping barefoot," in silks and in scarlets, to a field-preaching — walking in imagination with 
the rosy widow, who on Halloween ventured to dip her left sleeve in the burn, where three lairds' 
lands met — making the " bottle clunk," with joyous smugglers, on a lucky run of gin or brandy — 
or if his thoiights at all approached his acts — he was moralizing on the daisy oppressed by the 
furrow which his own ploughshare had turned. That his thoughts were thus wandering we 
have Ms own testimony, with that of his brother Gilbert ; and were both wanting, the certainty 
that he composed the greater part of his immortal poems in two years, from the summer of 1784 
to the summer of 1786, would be evidence suflGicient. The muse must have been strong within 
bim, when, in spite of the rains and sleets of the "ever-dropping west" — when in defiance of the 
lot and sweaty brows occasioned by reaping and thrashing — declining markets, and showery 



MOSS'JIEL— HIS FARMING. 



harvests — the clamour of his laird for his rent, and the tradesman for his account, he persevered 
hi song, and sought solace in verse, when all other solace was denied him. 

The circumstances under which his principal poems were composed, have been related: the 
•♦Lai>9ent of Mailie" found its origin in the catastrophe of a pet ewe; the "Epistle to Sillar" 
was confided by the poet to his brother while they were engaged in weeding the kale-yard ; the 
»« Address to the Deil" was suggested by the many strange portraits which belief or fear had 
d^awn of Satan, and was repeated by the one brother to the other, on the way with their carts io 
the kiln, for lime; the "Cotter's Saturday Night" originated in the reverence with which the 
worship of God was conducted in the family of the poet's father, and in the solemn tone witi 
which he desired his children to compose themselves for praise and prayer; "the Mouge," and 
its moral companion "the Daisy," were the oifspring of the iteidents which they relate; atd 
" Death and Doctor Hornbook" was conceived at a freemason-meeting, where the hero of the 
piece had shown too much of the pedant, and composed on his way home, after midnight, by the 
poet, while his head was somewhat dizzy with drink. One of the most remarkable of his compo- 
sitions, the "Jolly Beggars," a drama, to which nothing in the language of either the North or 
boiith can be compared, and which was unknown till after the death of the author, was suggested 
by a scene which he saw in a low ale-house, into which, on a Saturday night, most of the sturdy 
beggars of the district had met to sell their meal, pledge their superfluous rags, and drink their 
gains. It may be added, that he loved to walk in solitary spots ; that his chief musing ground 
was the banks of the Ayr ; the season most congenial to his fancy that of winter, when the winds 
were heard in the leafless woods, and the voice of the swollen streams came from vale and hill ; 
and that he seldom composed a whole poem at once, but satisfied with a few fervent verses, laid 
the subject aside, till the muse summoned him to another exertion of fancy. In a little back 
closet, still existing in the farm-house of Mossgiel, he committed most of his poems to paper. 

But while the poet rose, the farmer sank. It was not the cold clayey bottom of his ground, 
nor the purchase of unsound seed-corn, nor the fluctuation in the markets alone, which injured 
him ; neither was it the taste for freemason socialities, nor a desire to join the mirth of comrades, 
either of the sea or the shore ; neither could it be wholly imputed to his passionate following of the 
softer sex — indulgence in the " illicit rove," or giving way to his eloquence at the feet of one whom 
he lovpr] and honoured; other farmers indulged in the one, or suffered from the other, yet were 
prosperous. His want of success arose from other causes ; his heart was not with nis task, save 
by fits and starts : he felt he was designed for higher purposes than ploughing ind harrowing, 
and sowing, and reaping : when the sun called on him, after a shower, to come to the plough, or 
when the ripe corn invited the sickle, or the ready market called for the measured grain, the 
poet was under other spells, and was slow to avail himself of those golden moments, which come 
but once in the season. To this may be added, a too supei'ficial knowledge of the art of farming, 
and a want of intimacy with the nature of the soil he was called to cultivate. He could speak 
fluently of leas, and faugh's, and fallows, of change of seed and rotation of crops, but practical 
knowledge and application were required, and in these Burns was deficient. The moderate gain 
which those dark days of agriculture brought to the economical farmer, was not obtained : the 
close, the all but niggardly care by which he could win and keep his crown-pieces, — gold was 
seldom in the farmer's hand, — was either above or below the mind of the poet, and Mossgiel, 
which, in the hands of an assiduous farmer, might have made a reasonable return for labour, wafc 
unproductive, under one who had little skill, less economy, and no taste for the task. 

Other reasons for his failure have been assigned. It is to the credit of the moral sentimenta 
Df the husbandmen of Scotland, that when one of their class forgets what virtue requires, and 
dishonours, without reparation, even the humblest of the maidens, he is not allowed to go unpun- 
fshed. No proceedings take place, perhaps one hard word is not spoken ; but he is regarded with 
loathing by the old and the devout; he is looked on by all with cold and reproachful eyes — sorrow 
IS foretold as his lot, sure disaster as his fortune ; and if these chance to arrive, the only sympathy 
expressed is, "What better could he expect?" Something of this sort befel Burns: he had 
already satisfied the kirk in the matter of " Sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess," his daughter, 
hy cno of his motVer's maids ; and now, to use Ms own words, he was brought within point-blank 



XXXIV 



LIFE OF ROBEKT BUKNS. 



Df the heaviest metal of the kirk by a similar folly. The fair transgressor, hoth for he'' father's 
Bake and her own youth, had a large share of public sympathy. Jean Armour, for it is of her i 
Bpeak, was in her eighteenth yiiar; with dark eyes, a handsome foot, and a melodious tongue, sha 
made her way to the poet's heart — and, as their stations in life were equal, it seemed thai tney 
had only to be satisfied themselves to render their unioit easy, fjufc her father, m audition to 
being a very devout mafi, was a zealot of the Old Light; ana Jean, dreading his resontment, 
was willing, while she loved its unforgiven satirist, to love lUim '.n secret, in the hope that «b« 
time would come when she migh'; safely avow it: she admitted the poet, therefore, to hei oompanj 
in lonesome places, and walks beneath the moon, where they both iorgot tHemselves, and were &( 
last obliged to own a private marriage as a protection from kirk censure. Tne professors of the 
Old Light rejoiced, since it brougltt. a scoffing rhymer within reach of their hand; but her father 
felt a twofold sorrow, because of the shame of a favourite daughter, and for having committed 
the folly with one both loose in conduct and profane of speech. He had cause to be angry, buj 
his anger, through his zeal, became tyrannous : in the exercise of what he called a father's power, 
he compelled his child to renounce the poet as her husband and burn the marriage-lines ; for he 
regarded her marriage, without the kirk's permission, with a man so utteily cast away, as a worse 
crime than her folly. So blind is anger ! She could renounce neither h^r husband uor his off- 
spring in a lawful way, and in spite of the destruction of the marriage lines, and renouncinjc ii« 
name of wife, she was as much Mrs. Burns as marriage could make her. No one concerned seemed 
to think so. Burns, who loved her teE.derly, went all but mad when she renounced him : he gave 
up his share of Mossgiel to his brother, and roamed, moody and idle, about the land, with no 
better aim in life than a situation in one of our western sugar-isles, and a vague hope of distinction 
as a poet. 

How the distinction which he desired as a poet was to be obtained, was, to a poor bard in a 
provincial place, a sore puzzle : there were no enterprising booksellers in the western land, and 
it was not to be expected that the printers of either Kilraarnock or Paisley had money to expend 
on a speculation in rhyme : it is much to the honour of his native county that the publication 
which he wished for was at last made easy. The best of his poems, in his own handwriting, had 
found their way into the hands of the Ballantynes, Hamiltons, Parkers, and Mackenzies, and were 
, much admired. Mrs. Stewart, of Stair and Afton, a lady of distinction and taste, had made, 
accidentally, the acquaintance both of Burns and some of his songs, and was ready to befriend 
him ; and so favourable was the impression on all hands, that a subscription, sufficient to defray 
the outlay of paper and print, was soon filled up — one hundred copies being subscribed for by the 
Parkers alone. He soon arranged materials for a volume, and put them into the hands of a printer 
ux Kilmarnock, the Wee Johnnie of one of his biting epigrams. Johnnie was startled at the 
unceremonious freedom of most of the pieces, and asked the poet to compose one of modest lan- 
guage and moral aim, to stand at the beginning, and excuse some of those free ones which followed : 
Burns, whose " Twa Dogs" was then incomplete, finished the poem at a sitting, and put it in the 
van, much to his printer's satisfaction. If the "Jolly Beggars" was omitted for any other cause 
than its freedom of sentiment and language, or "Death and Doctor Hornbook" from any other 
feeling than that of being too personal, the causes of their exclusion have remained a secret. It 
is less easy to account for the omission of many songs of high merit which he had among hit 
papers . perhaps he thought those which he selected were sufficient to test the taste of th? 
public. Before he printed the whole, he, with the consent of his brother, altered his name ftoK 
Burness to Burns, a change which, I am told, he in after years regretted. 

In the summer of the year 1786, the little volume, big with the hopes and fortunes of the bard, 
made its appearance : it was entitled simply, " Poems, chiefly in the Scottish Dialect: by Robert 
Burns ;" and accompanied by a modest preface, saying, that he submitted his book to his country 
with fear and with trembling, since it contained little of the art of poesie, and at the best was 
but a voice given, rude, he feared, an^i uncouth, to the loves, the hopes, and the fears of his own 
bosom. Had a summer sun risen on a winter morning, it could not have surprised the Lowlands 
of Scotland more than this Kilmarnock volume surprised and delighted the people, one an i all. 
The milkmaid sang his songs, the ploughman repeated his poems ; the old quoted both, and evsa 



HIS FIRST VOLUME OF POEMS. 



■S.S.X 



flie devout rejoiced that idle verse had at last mixed a tone of morality with its mirth. Tlu 
'vojame penetrated even into Nithsdale. " Keep it out of the way of your children," said a 
Cameronian divine, when he lent it to my father, " lest ye find them, as I found mine, reading it 
tvn the Sabbath." No wonder that such a volume made its way to the hearts of a peasautiy 
whose taste in poetry had been the marvel of many writers: the poems were mostly on topics 
with which they were familiar: the language was that of the fireside, raised above the vulf^sviititv-^ 
of common life, by a purifying spirit of expression and the exalting fervour of inspiration : an;' 
there Was such a brilliant and graceful mixture of the elegant and the homely, the lofty and tht 
l»tr, the familiar and the elevated — such a rapid succession of scenes which moved to tenderness 
sr tears ; or to subdued mirth or open laughter — unlocked for allusions to scripture, or touches 
jf sarcasm and scandal — of superstitions to scare, and of humour to delight — while through tlie 
whole was diffused, as the scent of flowers through summer air, a moral meaning — a sentimental 
beauty, which sweetened and sanctified all. The poet's expectations from this little venture were 
tumble : he hoped as much money from it as would pay for his passage to the West Indies, where 
ae proposed to enter into the service of some of the Scottish settlers, and help to manage the 
louble mystery of sugar-making and slavery. 

The hearty applause which I have recorded came chiefly from the husbandman, the shepherd, 
and the mechanic: the approbation of the magnates of the west, though not less warm, was 
longer in coming. Mrs. Stewart of Stair, indeed, commended the poems and cheered their 
author : Dugald Stewart received his visits with pleasure, and wondered at his vigour of conver- 
sation as much as at his muse : the door of the house of Hamilton was open to him, where the 
table was ever spread, and the hand ever ready to help : while the pxirses of the Ballantynes 
and the Parkers were always as open to him as were the doors of their houses. Those persona 
must be regarded as the real patrons of the poet: the high names of -the district are not to b«> 
found among those who helped him with purse and patronage in 1786, that yeai ^f deep distress 
and high distinction. The Montgomerys came with their praise when his fam\. was up ; the 
Kennedys and the Boswells were silent : and though the Cunninghams gave eifectual aid, it waa 
when the muse was crying with a loud voice before him, " Come all and see the man whom I 
delight to honour." It would be unjust as well as ungenerous not to mention the name of Mrs 
Dunlop among the poet's best and early patrons : the distance at which she lived from Mossgiel 
had kept his name from her till his poems appeared : but his works induced her to desire hi.i 
acquaintance, and she became his warmest and surest friend. 

To say the truth, Burns endeavoured in every honourable way to obtain the notice of those who 
had influence in the land : he copied out the best of his unpublished poems in a fair hand, and 
inserting them in his printed volume, presented it to those who seemed slow to buy : he rewarded 
the notice of this one with a song — the attentions of that one with a sally of encomiastic verse : 
\e left psalms of his own composing in the manse when he feasted with a divine : he enclose^i 
"Holy Willie's Prayer," with an injunction to be grave, to one who loved mirth: he sent thv 
" Holy Fair" to one whom he invited to drink a gill out of a mutchkin stoup, at Mauchlina 
market ; and on accidentally meeting with Lord Daer, he immediately commemorated the event 
in a sally of verse, of a strain more free and yet as flattering as ever flowed from the lips of a 
eourt bard. While musing over the names of those on whom fortune had smiled, yet who had 
neglected to smile on him, he remembered that he had met Miss Alexander, a young beauty of 
the west, in the walks of Ballochmyle ; and he recorded the impression which this fair vision 
made on him in a song of unequalled eleganc and melody. He had met her i^ the woods ir 
July, on the 18th of November he sent her the song, and reminded her of the circumstance front 
which it arose, in a letter which it is evident he had laboured to render polished and complimen 
tary. The young lady took no notice of either the song or the poet, though willing, it is said, to 
hear of both now: — this seems to have been the last attempt he made on the taste or the sympa- 
thies of the gentry of his native district: for on the very day following we find him busy in mafc 
mg arrangements for his departure" to Jamaica. 

For this step Burns had more than sufficient reasons : the profits of his volume amounted M 
Stile xfore than enough to waft him across +be Atlantic : Wee Johnnie, though the edition wae 




ftU sold, refused to risk another on speculation : his friends, both Ballantjnes and Parkew, 
volunteered to relieve the printer's anxieties, but the poet declined their bounty, and gloomilj 
indented himself in a ship about to sail from Greenock, and called on his muse to take farewell 
of Caledonia, in the last song he ever expected to measure in his native land. That fine lyHc, 
if ginning '' The gloomy night is gathering fast," was the offspring of these moments of regre* 
and so)row. His feelings -were not expressed in song alone : he remembered his mother and hi« 
aa rural daughter, and made an assignment of all that pertained to him at Mossgiel — and thai 
iras t at little — and of all the advantage which a cruel, unjust, and insulting law allowed in the 
proceeds of his poems, for their support and behoof. This document was publicly read in the 
presence of the poet, at the market-cross of Ayr, by his friend William Chalmers, a notary public. 
Even this step was to Burns one of danger : some ill-advised person had uncoupled the mercilesi 
oapk of the law at his heels, and he was obliged to shelter himself as he best could, in woods, it ia 
said, by day and in barns by night, till the final hour of his departure came. That hour arrived, 
and his chest was on the way to the ship, when a letter was put into his hand which seemed to 
light him to brighter prospects. » 

Among the friends whom his merits had procured him was Dr. Laurie, a district clergyman, 
who had taste enough to admire the deep sensibilities as well as the humour of the poet, and the 
generosity to make known both his works and his worth to the warm-hearted and amiable Black- 
lock, who boldly proclaimed him a poet of the first rank, and lamented that he was not in Edinburgh 
to publish another edition of his poems. Burns was ever a man of impulse : he recalled his chest 
from Greenock ; he relinquished the situation he had accepted on the estate of one Douglas ; took 
a secret leave of his mother, and, without an introduction to any one, and unknown personally to 
all, save to Dugald Stewart, away he walked, through Glenap, to Edinburgh, full of new hope 
and confiding in his geniu^ When he arrived, he scarcely knew what to do : he hesitated to call 
on the professor ; he refrained from making himself known, as it has been supposed he did, to 
the enthusiastic Blacklock ; but, sitting down in an obscure lodging, he sought out an obscure 
printer, recommended by a humble comrade from Kyle, and began to negotiate for a new edition 
of the Poems of the Ayrshire Ploughman. This was not the way to go about it : his barge h&d 
well nigh been shipwrecked in the launch ; and he might have lived to regret the letter which 
hindered his voyage to Jamaica, had he not met by chance in the street a gentleman of the west, 
of the name of Dalzell, who introduced him to the Earl of Glencairn, a nobleman whose classic 
education did not hurt his taste for Scottish poetry, and who was not too proud to lend his help- 
ing hand to a rustic stranger of such merit as Burns. Cunningham carried him to Creech, then 
the Murray of Edinburgh, a shrewd man of business, who opened the poet's eyes to his true 
interests : the first proposals, then all but issued, were put in the fire, and new ones printed and 
diffused over the island. The subscription was headed by half the noblemen of the north : th« 
Caledonian Hunt, through the interest of Glencairn, took six hundred copies : duchesses and 
countesses swelled the list, and such a crowding .to write down names had not been witnessed 
since the signing of the solemn league and covenant. 

While the subscription-papers were filling and the new volume printing on a paper and in a 
\j-[.e worthy of such high patronage. Burns remained in Edinburgh, where, for the winter season, 
!»? B'as a lion, and one of an unwonted kind. Philosophers, historians, and scholars had shaken 
Ui? elegant coteries of the city with their wit, or enlightened them with their learning, but they 
TtT"? all men who had been polished by polite letters or by intercourse with high life, and there 
was a sameness in their very dress as well as address, of which peers and peeresses had become 
weary They therefore welcomed this rustic candidate for the honour of giving wings to theii 
hours of lassitude and weariness, with a welcome more than common ; and when his approach 
was announced, the polished "ircle looked for the advent of a lout from the plough, in whose 
uncouth manners and embarrassed address they might find matter both for mirth and wonder. 
But they met with a barbarian who was not at all barbarous : as the poet met in Lord Daer feel- 
ings and sentiments as natural as those of a ploughman, so they met in a ploughman manners 
worthy of a lord: his air was easy and unperplexed: his address was perfectly well-bred, and 
elegant in its simplicity : he felt neither eclipsed by the titled nor struck dumb before the 



HIGHLAND MARY. 



{earned and the eloquent, but took his station with the ease and grace of one bo^n to it. In th« 
Bociety of men alone he spoke out : he spared neither his wit, his humour, nor his sarcasm — h» 
geemed to say to all — ' ' I am a man, and you are no more ; and why should I not act and speali 
like one ?" — it was remarked, however, that he had not learnt, or did not desire, to conceal hii; 
emotions — that he commended with more rapture than was courteous, and contradicted with mare 
bluntness than was accounted polite. It was thus with him in the company of men : when wciittD 
approached, his look altered, his eye beamed milder ; all that was stern in his nature under wo»* 
a change, and he received them with deference, but with a consciousness that he coula win theio 
attention as he had won that of others, who differed, indeed, from them only in the texture of 
their kirtles. This natural power of rendering himself acceptable to women had been observed 
and envied by Sillar, one of the dearest of his early comrades; and it stood him in good stead now, 
when he was the object to whom the Duchess of Gordon, the loveliest as -well as the wittiest of 
women — directed her discourse. Burns, she afterwards said, won the attention of the Edinburgh 
ladies by a deferential way of address — by an ease and natural grace of manners, as new as it 
was umexpected — that he told them the stories of some of his tenderest songs or liveliest poema 
in & style quite magical — em-iching his little narratives, which had one and all the merit of being 
short, with personal incidents of humour or of pathos. 

In a party, when Dr. Blair and Professor Walker were present. Burns related the circumstances 
under which he had composed his melancholy song, " The gloomy night is gathering fast," in a 
way oven more touching than the verses : and in the company of the ruling beauties of the time, 
he hesitated not to lift the veil from some of the tenderer parts of his own history, and give them 
glimpses of the romance of rustic life. A lady of birth — one of his most willing listeners — used, 
I am told, to say, that she should never forget the tale which he related of his affection for Mary 
Campbell, his Highland Mary, as he loved to call her. She was fair, he said, and affectionate 
and as guileless as she was beautiful ; and beautiful he thought her in a very high degree. The 
first time he saw her was during one of his musing walks in the woods of Montgomery Castle , and 
the first time he spoke to her was during the merriment of a harvest-kirn. There were othera 
there who admired her, but he addressed her, and had the luck to win her regard from them all. 
He soon found that she was the lass whoni he had long sought, but never before found — that her 
good looks were surpassed by her good sense ; and her good sense was equalled by her disci otion 
and modesty. He met her frequently : she saw by his looks that he was sincere ; she put full 
trust in his love, and used to wander with him among the green knowes and stream-banks till the 
Bun went down and the moon rose, talking, dreaming of love and the golden days which awaited 
them. He was poor, and she had only her half-year's fee, for she was in the condition of a ser- 
vant ; but thoughts of gear never darkened their dream : they resolved to wed, and exchanged 
vows of constancy and love. They plighted their vows on the Sabbath to render them more 
sacred — they made them by a burn, where they had courted, that open nature might be a witness 
— they made them over an open Bible, to show that they thought of God in this mutual act — ana 
when they had done they both took water in their hands, and scattered it in the air, to intimate 
that as the stream was pure so were their intentions. They parted when they did this, but they 
parted never to meet more : she died in a burning fever, during a visit to her relations to prepare 
for her marriage ; and all that he had of her was a lock of her long bright hair, and her Biblej, 
which she exchanged for his. 

Even with the tales which he related of rustic love and adventure his own story mingled ; anJ 
iadies of rank heard, for the first time, that in all that was romantic in the passion of love> ind 
in all that was chivalrous in sentiment, men of distinction, both by education and birth, were at 
least equalled by the peasantry of the laud. They listened with interest, and inclined their 
■Teathers beside the bard, to hear how love went on in the west, and in no case it ran quite smooth 
Sometimes young hearts were kept asunder by the sordid feelings of parents, who could not be 
persuaded to bestow their daughter, perhaps an only one, on a wo6er who could not count penny 
for penny, and number cow- for cow: sometimes a mother desired her daughter to look higher than 
to one of her station ; for her beauty and her education entitled her to match among th« 
laii Is, '•ather ^han the tenants ; and sometimes, the devotional tastes of both father and mother 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



approving of personal looks and connexions, were averse to see a daughter bestow her hand ott 
one, whose language in religion was indiscreet, and whose morals were suspected. Yet, neithel 
♦ he vigilance of fathers, nor the suspicious care of aunts and mothers, could succeed in keeping 
those asunder whose hearts were together ; but in these meetings circumspection and invention 
were necessary : all fears were to be lulled by the seeming carelessness of the lass, — all perils 
were to be met and braved by the spirit of the lad. His home, perhaps, was at a distance, and 
he bad wild woods to come through, and deep streams to pass, before he could see the signal-light, 
now shown and now withdrawn, at her window ; he had to approach with a quick eye and a warj 
foot, lest a father or a brother should see, and deter him: he had sometimes to wish for a c'oud 
upon the moon, whose light, welcome to him on his way. in the distance, was likely to betray him 
when near ; and he not unfrequently reckoned a wild night of wind and rain as a blessing, since 
it helped to conceal his coming, and proved to his mistress that he was ready to brave all for her 
Bake. Of rivals met and baffled ; of half-willing and half-unconsenting maidens, persuaded and 
won ; of the light-hearted and the careless becoming affectionate and tender ; and the coy, the 
proud, and the satiric being gained by "persuasive words, and more persuasive sighs," asdamea 
had been gained of old, he had tales enow. The ladies listened, and smiled at the tender narra- 
tives of the poet. 

Of his appearance among the sons as well as the daughters of men, we have the account of 
Dugald Stewart. "Burns," says the philosopher, " came to Edinburgh early in th^ winter : the 
attentions which he received from all ranks and descrijptions of persons, were such as would have 
turned any head but his own. He retained the same simplicity of manners and appearance wh^oh 
had struck me so forcibly when I first saw him in the country : his dress was suited to his stati-n; 
plain and unpretending, with sufficient attention to neatness : he always wore boots, and, when on 
more than usual ceremony, buckskin breeches. His manners were manly, simple, and independent ; 
Btrongly expressive of conscious genius and worth, but without any indication of forwardness, 
arrogance, or vanity. He took his share in conversation, but not more than belonged to him, 
and listened with apparent deference on subjects where his want of education deprived him of 
the means of information. If there had been a little more of gentleness and accommodation in 
his temper, he would have been still more interesting ; but he had been accustomed to give law 
in the circle of his oi'dinary acquaintance, and his dread of anything approaching to meanness or 
servility, rendered his manner somewhat decided and hard. Nothing perhaps was more remark- 
able among his various attainments, than the fluency, and precision and originality of language, 
when he spoke in company ; more particulai'ly as he aimed at purity in his turn of expression, 
and avoided more successfully than most Scotsmen, the peculiarities of Scottish phrase 3logy. 
From his conversation I should have pronounced him to have been fitted to excel in whatevei 
walk of ambition he had chosen to exert his abilities. He was passionately fond of the beauties 
of nature, and I recollect he once told me, when I was admiring a distant prospect in one of our 
morning walks, that the sight of so many smoking cottages gave a pleasure to his mind, which 
none could understand who had not witnessed, like himself, the happiness and worth which cot- 
tages contained." ^ 

' Such was the impression which Burns made at first on the fair, the titled, and the learned of 
Edinburgh ; an impression wliich, though lessened by intimacy and closer examination on the 
part of the men, remained unimpaired, on that of the softer sex, till his dying-day. His coEi 
pany, during the season of balls and festivities, continued to be courted by all who desired to be 
reckoned gay or polite. Cards of invitation fell thick on him ; he was not more welcome to the 
plumed and jewelled groups, whom her fascinating Grace of Gordon gathered about her, than he 
was to the grave divines and polished scholars, who assembled in the rooms of Stewart, or Blair, 
or Kobertson. The classic socialities of Tyfeler, afterwards Lord Woodhouslee, or the elaborate 
supper-tables of the whimsical Monboddo, whose ^ests imagined they were entertained in the 
manner of LucuUus or of Cicero, were not complete without .the presence of the ploughman of 
Kyle ; and the feelings of the rustic poet, facing such companies, though of surprise and delight 
it first, gradually subsided, he said, as he discerned, that man differed from man only in th« 
f ilish, and not in the grain. But Edinburgh offered tables and entertainers of a less orderl/ 



ROOIETY OP EDINBURGH. 



ind staid cliaracter than those I have named — where the glass circulated with greater rapidity ; 
where the wit flowed more freely ; and where there were neither highbred ladies to charm con- 
versation within the bounds of modesty, nor serious philosophers, nor grave divines, to set a limit 
to the license of speech, or the hours of enjoyment. To these companions — and these were all 
of the better classes, the levities of the rustic poet's wit and humour were as welcome as were 
the tenderest of his narratives to the accomplished Duchess of Gordon and the beautiful Misa 
Burnet of Monboddo ; they raised a social roar not at all classic, and demanded and provoked 
3fl8 sallies of wild humour, or indecorous mirth, with as much delight as he had witnessed among' 
Uie lads of Kyle, when, at mill or forge, his humorous sallies abounded as the ale flowed. Iq 
these enjoyments the rough, but learned William Nicol, and the young and amiable Kobert Ains-. 
lie shared : the name of the poet was coupled with those of profane wits, free livers, and that 
class of half -idle gentlemen who hang about the courts of law, or for a season or two wear the 
livery of Mars, and handle cold iron. 

Edinburgh had still another class of genteel convivialists, to whom the poet was attracted by 
principles as well as by pleasure ; these were the relics of that once numerous body, the Jacobites, 
who still loved to cherish the feelings of birth or education rather tnan of judgment, and toasted 
the name of Stuart, when the last of the race had renounced his pretensions to a throne, for the 
Bake of peace and the cross. Young men then, and high names were among them, annually met 
on the pretender's birth-day, and sang songs in which the white rose of Jacobitism flourished ; 
toasted toasts announcing adhc-renea to the mule line oi' the Bruce and tht Btuart, and listened 
t') the strains of the laureate of the day, who prophesied, in drink, the dismissal of the intrusive 
Hanoverian, by the right and might of the righteous and disinherited line. Burns, who wa.3 
descended from a northern race, whose father was suspected of having drawn the claymore in 
1745, and who loved the blood of the Keith-Marishalls, under whose banners his ancestors had 
marched, readily united himself to a band in whose sentiments, political and social, he was a sharer. 
He was received with acclamation : the dignity of laureate was conferred upon him, and hia 
inauguration ode, in which he recalled the names and the deeds of the Grahams, the Erskines, 
the Boyds, and the Gordons, was applauded for its fire, as well as for its sentiments. Yet, though 
he ate and drank and sang with Jacobites, he was only as far as sympathy and poesie went, of 
their number : his reason renounced the principles and the religion of the Stuart line ; and though 
he shed a tear over their fallen fortunes — though he sympathized with the brave and honourable 
names that perished in their cause — though he cursed " the butcher, Cumberland," and the bloody 
spirit which commanded the heads of the good and the heroic to be stuck where they would afi'right 
the passer-by, and pollute the air — he had no desire to see the splendid fabric of constitutional 
freedom, which the united genius of all parties had raised, thrown wantonly down. His Jacobitisra 
influenced, not his head, but his heart, and gave a mournful hue to many of his lyric compositions. 

Meanwhile his poems were passing through the press. Burns made a few emend*ations of those 
l^ablished in the Kilmarnock edition, and he added others which, as he expressed it, he had 
carded and spun, since he passed Glenbuck. Some rather coarse lines wer^ softened or omitteJ 
in the "Twa Dogs ;" others, from a change of his personal feelings, were made in the " Vision:'' 
"Death and Doctor Hornbook," excluded before, was admitted now: the "Dream" was retained, 
Ix spite of the remonstrances of Mrs. Stewart, of Stair, and Mrs. Dunlop ; and the "Brigs of 
Ayr," in compliment to Ms patrons in his native district, and the "Address to Edinburgh," iis 
aanour of his titled and distinguished friends in that metropolis, were printed for the first time. 
fie was unwilling to alter what he had once printed : his friends, classic, titled, and rustic, founa 
nil. stabborn and unpliable, in matters of criticism; yet he was geneluUy of a complimental 
mc'sd : he loaded the robe of Coila in the " Vision," with more scenes than it could well contain, 
tliat he might include in the landscape, all the country-seats of his friends, and he gave more 
than their share of commendation to the Wallaces, out of respect to his friend Mrs. Dunlop. Of 
the critics of Edinburgh he said, they spun the thread of their criticisms so fine that it was unfit 
for either warp cr weft; and of its scholars, he said, they were never satisfied with any Scottish 
poet, unleEi they could trace him in Horace. One morning at Dr. Blqjjr's breakfast-table, when 
tbe " Hoiy i'air" wa^ the subject of conversation, the reverend critic said, " Why should 



LIFE OF ROBEKT BURNS. 



■ Moody speel the holy door 
With tidings of salvation ?' 



tf you had said, "witli tidings of damnation, the satire would have been the better and the bitterer." 
"Excellent!" exclaimed the poet, "the alteration is capital, and I hope you will honour me by 
allowing me to say in a note at whose suggestion it was made." Professor Walker, who tells tht 
anecdote, adds that Blair evaded, with equal good humour and decision, this not very polIt« 
request ; nor was this the only slip which the poet made on this occasion : some one asked bin 
In which of the churches of Edinburgh he had received the highest gratification : he named tLo 
H gh-church, but gave the preference over all preachers to Robert Walker, the colleague an3 
rival in eloquence of Dr. Blair himself, and that in a tone so pointed and decisive as to make al] 
at the table stare and look embarrassed. The poet confessed afterwards that he never reflected 
on his blunder without pain and mortification. Blair probably had this in his mind, when, on 
reading the poem beginning " When Guildford good our pilot stood," he exclaimed, " Ah ! the 
politics of Burns always smell of the smithy," meaning, that they were vulgar and common. 

In April, the second or Edinburgh, edition was published ; it was widely purchased, and aa 
warmly commended. The country had been prepared for it by the generous and discriminating 
criticisms of Henry Mackenzie, published in that popular periodical, " The Lounger," where he 
says, "Burns possesses the spirit as well as the fancy of a poet ; that honest pride and indepen- 
dence of soul, which are sometimes the muse's only dower, break forth on every occasion, in hia 
works." The praise of the author of the " Man of Feeling" was not more felt by Bums, than it 
was by the whole island : the harp of the north had not been swept for centuries by a hand so 
forcible, and at the same tinie so varied, that it awakened every tone, whether of joy or woe: the 
language was that of rustic life ; the scenes of the poems were the dusty barn, the clay-floored 
reeky cottage, and the furrowed field ; and the characters were cowherds, ploughmen, and 
mechanics. The volume was embellished by a head of the poet from the hand of the now vene- 
rable Alexander Nasmith ; and introduced by a dedication to the noblemen and gentlemen of the 
Caledonian Hunt, in a style of vehement independence, unknown hitherto in the history of sub- 
scriptions. The whole work, verse, prose, and portrait, won public attention, and kept it : and 
though some critics signified their displeasure at- expressions which bordered on profanity, and 
at a license of language which they pronounced impure, by far the greater number united their 
praise to the all but general voice ; nay, some scrupled not to call him, from his perfect ease and 
nature and variety, the Scottish Shakspeare. No one rejoiced more in his success, and his fame, 
than the matron of Mossgiel. 

Other matters than his poems and socialities claimed the attention of Burns in Edinburgh. He 
had a hearty relish for the joyous genius of Allan Ramsay; he traced out his residences, and 
rejoiced to think that while he stood in the shop of his own bookseller, Creech, the same floor 
had been trod by the feet of his great forerunner. He visited, too, the lowly grave of the unfor- 
tunate Robert Fergjisson ; and it must be recorded to the shame of the magistrates of Edinburgh, 
that they allowed him to erect a headstone to his memory, and to the scandal of Scotland, that in 
Buch a memorial he had not been anticipated. He seems not to have regarded the graves of 
scholars or philosophers ; and he trod the pavements where the warlike princes and nobles had 
walked without any emotion. He loved, however, to see places celebrated in Scottish song, and 
fields where battles for the independence of his country had been stricken ; and, with money in 
bis pocket which his poems had produced, and with a letter from a witty but weak man, Lord 
Buchan, instructing him to pull birks on the Yarrow, broom on the Cowden-knowes, and not to 
neglect to admire the ruins of Drybrugh Abbey, Burns set out on a border tour, accompanied by 
Robert Ainslie, of Berrywell. As the poet had talked of returning to the plough, Dr. BlaiJ 
imagined that he was on his way back to the furrpwed field, and wrote him a handsome farewel, 
paying he was leaving Edinburgh with a character which had survived many temptations ; with a 
name which would be placed with the Ramsays and the Fergussons, and with the hopes of all, 
that, in a second volume, on which his fate as a poet would very much depend, he might rise yet 
h'gher in merit and in fame. Burns, who received this communication when laying hi.s leg ovei 



BORDER TOUR. 



the saddle to be gone, is said to have muttered, "Ay, but a man's first book is sometimes lifc'J 
liis first babe, healthier and stronger than those which follow." 

On the 6th of May, 1787, Burns reached Berrywell : he recorded of the laird, that he was 
clear-headed, and of Miss Ainslie, that she was amiable and handsome — of Dudgeon, the author 
of " The Maid that tends the Goats," that he had penetration and modesty, and of the preacher, 
Bowmaker, that he was a man of strong lungs and vigorous remark. On "crossing the Tweed al 
Coldstream he took off his hat, and kneeling down, repeated aloud the two last verses of the 
"Cotter" J Saturday Night :" on returning, he drank tea with Brydone, the traveller, a man, hff 
said, kir^d and benevolent : he cursed one. Cole as an English Hottentot, for having rooted out aa 
ancient garden belonging to a Romish ruin ; and he wrote of Macdowal, of Oaverton-miU, that 
fey his skill in rearing sheep, he sold his flocks, ewe and lamb, for a couple of guineas each : that 
he washed his sheep before shearing — and by his turnips improved sheep-husbandry; he added 
that lands were generally let at sixteen shillings the Scottish acre; the farmers rich, and, com- 
pared to Ayrshire, their houses magnificent. On his way to Jedburgh he visited an old gentleman 
in whose house was an arm-chair, once the property of the author of " The Seasons ;" he 
reverently examined the relic, and could scarcely be persuaded to sit in it: he was a warm 
admirer of Thomson. 

In Jedburgh, Burns found much to interest him : the ruins of a splendid cathedral, and of a 

strong castle — and, what was still more attractive, an amiable young lady, very handsome, with 

" beautiful hazel eyes, full of spirit, sparkling with delicious moisture," and looks which betokened 

a high order of female mind. He gave her his portrait, and entered this remembrance of her 

attractions among his memoranda : — " My heart is thawed into melting pleasure, after being so 

long frozen up in the Greenland bay of indifference, amid the noise and nonsense of Edinburgh. 

I am afraid my bosom has nearly as much tinder as ever. Jed, pure be thy streams, and 

hallowed thy sylvan banks : sweet Isabella Lindsay, may peace dwell in thy bosom uninterrupted, 

except by the tumultuous throbbings of rapturous love !" With the freedom of Jedburgh, hand 

Bomely bestowed by the magistrates, in his ' pocket, Burns made his way to Wauchope, the resi 

dence of Mrs. Scott, who had welcomed him into the world as a poet in verses lively and graceful 

he found her, he said, " a lady of sense and taste, and of a decision peculiar to female authors." 

After dining with Sir Alexander Don, who, he said, was a clever man, but far from a match for 

... I 

his divine lady, a sister of bis patron Glencairn, he spent an hour among the beautiful ruins of 

Dryburgh Abbey ; glanced on the splendid remains of Melrose ; passed, unconscious of the future, 

over that ground on which have arisen the romantic towers of Abbotsford ; dined with certain of 

the Souters of Selkirk; and visited the old keep of Thomas the Rhymer, and a dozen of the hilla 

and streams celebrated in song. Nor did he fail to pay his respects, after returning through 

Dunse, to Sir James Hall, of Dunglass, and his lady, and was much pleased with the scenery of 

their romantic place. He was now joined by a gentleman of the name of Kerr, and crossing tho 

Tveed a second time, penetrated into" England, as far as the ancient town of Newcastle, where 

he smf-?i at a facetious Northumbrian, who at dinner caused the beef to be eaten before the 

broti was served, in obedience to an ancient injunction, lest the hungry Scotch should come 

and snatch it. On his way back he saw, what proved to be prophetic of his own fortune — the 

roup of an unfortunate farmer's stock: he took out his journal, and wrote with a troubled brow, 

" Rifc-<i economy, and decent industry, do you preserve me from being the principal dramatis per^ 

tohce, in such a scene of horror." He extended his tour to Carlisle, and from thence to the banks 

of the Nith, where he looked at the farm of EUisland, with the intention of trying once more his 

fortune at the plough, should poetry and patronage fail him. 

On his way through the West, Burns spent a few days with his mother at Mossgiel : he had 

left her an unknown and an almost banished man : he returned in fame and in sunshine, admired 

by all who aspired to be thought tasteful or refined. He felt offended alike with the patrician 

Btateliness of Edinburgh and the plebeian servility of the husbandmen of Ayrshire ; and dreading 

the influence of the unlucky star which had hitherto ruled his lot, he bought a pocket Milton, he 

laid, for the purpose of studying the intrepid independence and daring magnanimity, and nobla 

defiance of hardships, exhibited by Satan ! In this mood he reached Edinburgh — only to leave l 



tin 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



again on three hurried excursions into the Highlands. The route which he took and the senti- 
ments which the scenes awakened, are but faintly intimated in the memoranda .which he made. 
His first journey seems to have been performed in ill-humour ; at Stirling, his Jacobitism, provoked 
at seeing the ruiued palace of the Stuarts, broke out in some unloyal lines which he had the 
Indiscretion to write with a diamond on the window of a public inn. At Carron, where he was 
refused a sight of the magnificent foundry, he avenged himself in epigram. At Inverary h« 
resented some real or imaginary neglect on the part of his Grace of Argyll, by a stinging lampoon; 
aor can he be said to have fairly regained his serenity of temper, till he danced his wrath awaj 
(fith some Highland ladies at Dumbarton. 

His second excursion was made in the company of Dr. Adair, of Harrowgate : the reluctant 
doors of Carron foundry were opened to him, and he expressed his wonder at the blazing furnaces 
and broiling labours of the place ; he removed the disloyal lines from the window of the inn at 
Stirling, and he paid a two days' visit to Ramsay of Ochtertyre, a distinguished scholar, and dis- 
cussed with him future tojiics for the muse. "I have been in the company of many men of 
genius," said Piamsay afterwards to Currie, " some of them poets, but never witnessed such 
flashes of intellectual brightness as from him — the impulse of the moment, sparks of celestial 
fire." From the Forth he went to the Devon, in the county of Clackmannan, where, for the first 
time, he saw the beautiful Charlotte Hamilton, the sister of his friend Gavin Hamilton, of Mauch- 
line. "She is not only beautiful," he thus writes to her brother, "but lovely: her form is 
elegant, her features not regular, but they have the smile of sweetness, and. the settled compla- 
cency of good nature in the highest degree. Her eyes are fascinating; at once expressive of good 
sense, tenderness and a noble mind.' After the exercise of our riding to the Falls, Charlotte waa 
exactly Di\ Donne's mistress : — 

"Her pure and eloquent Wood 
Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought, 
That one would almost aay her body thought." 

Accompanied by this charming dame, he visited an old lady, Mrs. Bruce, of Clackmannan, who, 
in the belief that she had the blood of the royal Bruce in her veins, received the poet with some- 
thing of princely state, and, half in jest, conferred the honour of knighthood upon him, with her 
ancestor's sword, saying, in true Jacobitical mood, that she had a better right ta»do that than 
some folk had! In the same pleasing company he visited the famous cataract on the Devon, 
called the Cauldron Linn, and the Rumbling bridge, a single arch thrown, it is said by the devil, 
over the Devon, at the height of a hundred feet in the air. It was the complaint of his compa- 
nions that Burns exhibited no raptures, and poured out no unpremeditated verses at such magni- 
ficent scenes. But he did not like to be tutored or prompted: "Look, look!" exclaimed some 
one, as Carron foundry belched forth flames — " look, Burns, look ! good heavens, what a graiid 
Bight! — look!" "I would j^iot look — ^look, sir, at your bidding," said the bard, turning away, 
"were it into the mouth of hell!" When he visited, at a future time, the romantic Linn of Cree- 
feope, in Nithsdale, he looked silently at its wonders, and showed none of the hoped-for rapture. 
"You do not admire it, I fear," said a gentleman who accompanied him: "I could not admire it 
more, sir," replied Burns, " if He who made it were to desire me to do it." There are other reasons 
for the silence of Burns amid the scenes of the Devon : he was charmed into love by the sense 
and the beauty of Charlotte Hamilton, and rendered her homage in that sweet song, " The Banks 
of th-e Devon," and in a dozen letters written with more than his usual care, elegance, and 
ten derness. But the lady was neither to be won by verse nor by prose : she afterwards gave 
her hand to Adair, the poet's companion, and, what was less meritorious, threw his letters into 
the fire, 

The third and last tour into the North was in company of Nicol of the High-School of Edin- 
Durgh : on the fields of Bannockburn and Falkirk — places of triumph and of woe to Scotland, he 
gave way to patriotic impulses, and in these words he recorded them : — " Stirling, August 26, 
1787 : this morning I knelt at the tomb of Sir John the Graham, the gallant friend of the immortal 
Wallace ; and two hours ago I said a fervent prayer for old Caledonia, over the hole i.i a whinf 



HIGHLAND TOUR. 



xliil 



Btone where Robert the Bruce fixed his royal standard on the banks of Bannockbum." He then 
proceeded northward by Ochtertyre, the water of Earn, the vale of Glen Almond, and the tradi 
tionary graio of Ossian. He looked in at princely Taymouth; mused an hour or two among the 
Birks of Aberfeldy ; gazed from Birnam top ; paused amid the wild grandeur of the pass of 
Killiecrankie, at the stone which marks the spot where a second patriot Graham fell, and spent a 
day at Blair, where he experienced the graceful kindness — .'>ie Duke of Athol, and in a strain 
troly elegant, petitioned him, in the name of Bruar Water, to hide the utter nakedness of its 
Ctherwise picturesque banks, with plantations of birch and oak. Quitting Blair he followed th« 
e'-jrae of the Spey, and passing, as he told his brother, through a wild country, among cliffs gray 
With eternal snows, and glens gloomy and savage, reached Findhorn in mist and darkness ; visited 
Castle Cawdor, where Macbeth murdered Duncan; hastened through Inverness to Urquhart 
Castle, and the ?alls of Fyers, and turned southward to Kilravock, over the fatal moor of' CuUo- 
den. He admired the ladies of that classic region for their snooded ringlets, simple elegance of 
dress, and expressive eyes : in Mrs. Rose, of Kilravock Castle, he found that matronly grace and 
dignity which he owned he loved ; and in the Duke and Duchess of Gordon a renewal of that mora 
than kindness with which they had welcomed him in Edinburgh. But while he admired the 
palace of Fochabers, and was charmed by the condescensions of the noble proprietors^ he forgot 
that he had left a companion at the inn, too proud and captious to be pleased at favours showered 
on others : he hastened back to the inn with an invitation and an apology : he found the fiery 
pedant in a foaming rage, striding up and down the street, cursing in Scotch and Latin the loitering 
postilions for not yoking the horses, and hurrying him away. All apology and explanation waa 
in vain, and Burns, with a vexation which he sought not to conceal, took his seat silently beside 
the irascible pedagogue, and returned to the South by Broughty Castle, the banks of Endermay 
and Queensferry. He parted with the Highlands in a kindly mood, and loved to recal the stenea 
and the people, both in conversation and in song. 

On his I ^turn to Edinburgh he had to bide the time of his bookseller and the public : the 
tmpression of his poems, extending to two thousand eight hundred copies, was sold widely : much 
of the money had to come from a distance, and Burns lingered about the northern metropolis, 
expecting a settlement with Creech, and with the hope that those who dispensed his country's 
patronage might remember one who then, as now, was reckoned an ornament to the land. But 
Creech, a parsimonious man, was slow in his payments ; the patronage of the country was swal-' 
lowed up in the sink of politics, and though noblemen smiled, and ladies of rank nodded their 
jewelled heads in approbation of evei-y new song he sung and every witty sally he uttered, they 
reckoned any further notice or care superfluous: the poet, an observant man, saw all this ; but hope 
was the cordial of his heart, he said, and he hoped and lingered on. Too active a genius to remain 
idle, he addressed himself to the twofold business of love and verse. Repulsed by the stately 
Beauty of the Devon, he sought consolation in the society of one, as fair, and infinitely more 
witty; and as an accident had for a time deprived him of the use of one of his legs, he gave 
wings to hours of pain, by writing a series of letters to this Edinburgh enchantress, in which he 
signed himself Sylvander, and addressed her under the name of Clarinda. In these compositions, 
whi-^.b no one can regard as serious, and which James Grahame the poet called " a romance of 
^?ea^ 'i'latonic aflfection," amid much affectation both of language and sentiment, and a desire to say 
Sue and startling things, we can see the proud heart of the poet throbbing in the dread of boinf 
acglected or forgotten by his country. The love which he offers up at the altar of wit and beattty^ 
seems assumed and put on, for its rapture is artificial, and its brilliancy that of an icicle : no 
woman was ever wooed and won in that Malvolio way; and there is no doubt that Mrs. M'Lehose 
felt as much offence as pleasure at this boisterous display of regard. In aftertimes he loved to 
?emember her : — when wine circulated, Mrs. Mac was his favourite toast. 

During this season he began his lyric contributions to the Musical Museum of Johnson, a work 
which, amid many imperfections of taste and arrangement, contains more of the true old music 
End genuine old songs of Scotland, than any other collection with which I am acquainted. Burna 
(gathered oral airs, and fitted them with words of mirth or of woe, of tenderness or of humour, 
»ith unexampled readiness and felicity ; he eked oit old fragments and sobered down licentioot 




Itrains so much in the olden spirit and feeling, that the new cannot be distinguished frw tht 
ancient ; nay, he inserted lines and half lines, with such skill and nicety, that antiquarian, are 
perplexed to settle which is genuine or which is simulated. Yet with all this he abated noi of 
the natural mirth or the racy humour of the lyric muse of Scotland : he did not like her the etia 
because she walked like some of the maidens of her strains, high-kilted at times, and spoke > ith 
the freedom of innocence. In these communications we observe how little his border-jaunt among 
the fountains of ancient song contributed either of sentiment or allusion, to his lyries ; and how 
deeply his strains, whether of pity or of merriment, were coloured by what he had seen, and 
heard, and felt in the Highlands. In- truth, all that lay beyond the Forth was an undiscovered 
land to him ; while the lowland districts were not only familiar to his mind and eye, but all their 
more romantic vales and hills and streams were already musical in songs of such excellence as 
induced him to dread failure rather than hope triumph. Moreover, the Highlands teemed with 
jajobitical feelings, and scenes hallowed by theblood.or the suiferings of men heroic, and perhaps 
mieguided ; and the poet, willingly yielding to an impulse which was truly romantic, and believed 
by thousands to be loyal, penned his songs on Drumossie, smd Killiecrankie, as the spirit of sorrow 
or of bitterness prevailed. Though accompanied, during his northern excursions, by friends 
whose socialities and conversation forbade deep thought, or even serious remark, it will be seen 
bjf those who read his lyrics with care, that his wreath is indebted for some of its fairest flowera 
to the Highlands. 

The second winter of the poet's abode in Edinburgh had now arrived : it opened, as might have 
been expected, with less rapturous welcomes and with more of frosty civility than the first. It 
must be confessed, that indulgence in prolonged socialities, and in company which, though cleveE, 
could not be called select, contributed to this ; nor must it be forgotten that his love for the 
sweeter part of creation was now and then carried beyond the limits of poetic respect, and the 
delicacies of courtesy ; tending to estrange the austere and to lessen the admiration at first 
common to all. Other causes may be assigned for this wane of popularity : he took no care to 
conceal his contempt for all who depended on mere scholarship for eminence, and he had a perilous 
knack in sketching with a sarcastic hand the characters of the learned and the grave. Some 
indeed of the high literati of the north — Home, the author of Douglas, was one of them— spoke 
of the poet as a chance or an accident: and though they admitted that he was a poet, yet 
he was not one of settled grandeur of soul, brightened by study. Burns was probably aware 
of this; he takes occasion in some of his letters to suggest, that the hour may be at hand 
when he shall be accounted by scholars as a meteor, rather than a fixed light,- and to suspect 
that the praise bestowed on his genius was partly owing to the humility of his condition. From 
his lingering so long about Edinburgh, the nobility began to dread a second volume by sub- 
scription, the learned to regard him as a fierce Theban, who resolved to carry all the out- 
works to the temple of Fame without the labour of making regular approaches ; while a third 
party, and not the least numerous, looked on him with distrust,- as one who hovered between 
Jacobite and Jacobin; who disliked the loyal-minded, and loved to lampoon the reigning family. 
Besides, the marvel of- the inspired ploughman had begun to subside ; the bright gloss of 
novelty was worn ofl", and his fault lay in his unwillingness to see that he had made all th« 
uport which the Philistines expected, and was required to make room for some " salvage" of 
the season, to paw, and roar, and shake the mane. The doors of the titled, which at first opened 
Bpontanecus, like those in Milton's heaven, were now unclosed for him with a tardy courtesy : ht 
^as received with measured stateliness, and seldom requested to repeat his visit. Of thia 
changed aspect of things he complained to a friend : but his real sorrows were mixed with those 
of the fancy : — he told Mrs. Dunlop with what pangs of heart he was compelled to take shelter in 
% corner, lest the rattling equipage of some gaping blockhead should mangle him in the mire. 
In this land of titles atid wealth such querulous sensibilities must have been frequently ofi'ended. 

Burns, who-had talked lightly hitherto of resuming the plough, began now to think seriously 
»bout it, for he saw it must come to that at last. Miller, of Dalswinton, a gentleman of scientific 
cqi;iirements, and who has the merit of applying the impulse of steam to navigation, had offered 

> poet the choice of his farms, on a fair estate which he had purchased on the Nith : aided b^ 



HIS MARRIAGE. 



xit 



B westland farmer, he selected Ellisland, a beautiful spot, fit alike for the steps of ploughman at 
poet. On intimating this to the raagnates of Edinhurgh, no one lamented that a genius so brigtot 
and original should be driven to win his bread with the sweat of his brow : no one, with an 
indignant eye, ventured to tell those .to whom the patronage of this magnificent empire was con- 
Sl°ded, that they were misusing the sacred trust, and that posterity would curse them for their 
coldness or neglect: neither did any of the rich nobles, whose tables he had adorned by his wit, 
offer to enable him to toil free of rent, in a land of which he was to be a permanent ornament; — 
ftll were silent — all were cold — the Earl of Glencairn alone, aided by Alexander Wood, a gentle- 
man who merits praise oftener than he is named, did the little that was done or attempted tc be 
done for him: nor was that little done on the peer's part without solicitation: — "I wish to go 
into the excise ;" thus he wrote to Glencairn ; " and I am told your lordship's interest will easily 
procure me the grant from the. commissioners : and your lordship's patronage and goodness, 
which have already rescued me from obscurity, wretchedness, and exile, emboldens me to ask 
that interest. You have likewise put it in my power to save the little tie of home that sheltered 
an aged mother, two brothers, and three sisters from destruction. I am ill qualified to dog the 
heels of greatness with the impertinence of solicitation, and tremble nearly as much at the thought 
of the cold promise as the cold denial." The farm and the excise exhibit the poet's humble 
scheme of life : the money of the one, he thought, would support the toil of the other, and in the 
fortunate management of both, he looked for the rough abundance, if not the elegancies suitable 
to a poet's condition. 

While Scotland was disgraced by sordidly allowing her brightest genius to descend to the 
plough and the excise, the poet hastened his departure from a city which had witnessed both hia 
triumph and his shame: he bade farewell in a few well-chosen words to such of the classic literati, 
— the Blairs, the Stewarts, the Mackenzies, and the Tytlers — as had welcomed the rustic bard 
and continued to countenance him ; while in softer accents he bade adieu to the Clarindas and 
Chlorises of whose charms he had sun^ and, having wrung a settlement, from Creech, he turned 
, his steps towards Mossgiel and Mauchline. He had several reasons, and all sei'ious ones, for 
taking Ayrshire in his way to the Nith : he desired to see his mother, his brothers and sisters, 
who had partaken of his success, and were now raised from pining penury to comparative afiiuence : 
he desired to see those who had aided him in his early struggles into the upper air — perhaps 
those, too, who had looked coldly on, and smiled at his outward aspirations after fame or distinc- 
tion ; but more than all, he desired to see one whom he once and still dearly loved, who had been 
a sufi'erer for his sake, and whom he proposed to make mistress of his fireside and the sharer of 
his fortunes. Even while whispering of love to Charlotte Hamilton, on the 'banks of the Devoa, 
or sighing out the afi"ected sentimentalities of platonic or pastoral love in the ear of Clarinda, hia 
thoughts wandered to her whom he had left bleaching her webs among the daisies on Mauchline 
braes — she had still his heart, and in spite of her own and her father's disclamation, she was his 
wife. It was one of the delusions of this great poet, as well as of those good people, the Armours, 
that the marriage had been dissolved by the destruction of the marriage-lines, and that Robert 
Lurps and Jean Armour were as single as though they had neither vowed nor written themselves 
aaan ind wife. Be that as it may, the time was come when all scruples and obstacles were to b€ 
removed which stood in the way of their union : their hands were united by Gavin Hamiltoa, 
according to law, in April, 1788 ; and even the Reverend Mr. Auld, so mercilessly lampoonsd, 
smiled forgivingly as the poet satisfied a church wisely scrupulous regarding the sacrei ceremony 
of marriage. 

Though Jean Armour was but a country lass of humble degree, she had sense and !nt»il!5e»<:»», 
and personaf charms sufficient not only to win and fix the affections of the poet, but to saiction 
the praise which he showered on her in song. In a letter to Mrs. Dunlop, he thus describes her : 
' The most placid good nature and sweetness of disposition, a warm heart, gratefully devoted 
l»ith all its powers to love me ; vigorous health and sprightly cheerfulness, set off to the best 
advantage by a more than commonly handsome figure : these I think in a woman may make a 
Vod wife, though she should never have read a page but the Scriptures, nor have danced in a 



Kin 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



brighter assembly than a penny-pay wedding." To the accomplished Margaret Chalmers, oi 
Edinburgh, he adds, to complete the picture, "I have got the handsomest figure, the sweetest 
temper, the soundest constitution, and kindest heart in the country : a certain late publication 
of Scots' poems she has perused very devoutly, and all the ballads in the land, as she has the 
finest woodnote wild you ever heard." With his young wife, a punch bowl of Scottish marble, and 
an eight-day clock, both presents from Mr. Armour, now reconciled to his eminent son-in-law, 
with a new plough, and a beautiful heifer, given by Mrs. Dunlop, with about four hundrod pounda 
in liis pocket, a resolution to toil, and a hope of success. Burns made his appearance on the bankg 
of the Nith, and set up his stafi" at Ellisland. This farm, now a classic spot, is about six milei 
up the river from Dumfries ; it extends to upwards of a hundred acres : the soil is kindly ; the 
holmland portion of it loamy and rich, and it has at command fine walks on the river side, and 
views of the Friar's Carse, Cowehill, and Dalswinton. For a while the poet had to hide his head 
in a smoky hovel ; till a house to his fancy, and offices for his cattle and his crops were built, his 
accommodation was sufficiently humble ; and his mind taking its hue from his situation, infused 
a bitterness into the letters in which he first made known to his western friends that he had fixed 
his abode in Nithsdale. " I am here," said he, " at the very elbow of existence : the only things 
to be found in perfection in this country are stupidity and canting ; prose they only know in graces 
and prayers, and the value of these they estimate as they do their plaiden-webs, by the ell : as 
for the muses, they have as miich an idea of a rhinoceros as of a poet." "This is an undiscovered 
clime," he at another period exclaims, "it is unknown to poetry, and prose never looked on it 
save in drink. I sit by the fire, and listen to the hum of the spinning-wheel : I hear, but cannot 
see it, for it is hidden in the smoke which eddies round and round me before it seeks to escape by 
window and door. I have no converse but with the ignorance which encloses me : no kenned face 
but that of my old mare, Jenny Geddes — my life is dwindled down to mere existence." 

When the poet's new house was built and plenished, and the atmosphere of his mind began to 
clear, he found the land to be fruitful, and its people intelligent and wise. In Riddel, of Friar's 
Carse, he found a scholar and antiquarian ; in Miller, of Dalswinton, a man conversant with 
science as well as with the world; in M'Murdo, of Drumlanrig, a generous and accomplished 
gentleman ; and in John Syme, of Ryedale, a man much after his own heart, and a lover of the 
wit and socialities of polished life. Of these gentlemen Riddel, who was his neighbour, was the 
favourite : a door was made in the march-fence which separated Ellisland from Friar's Carse, 
that the poet might indulge in the retirement of the Carse hermitage, a little lodge in the wood, 
as romantic as it was beautiful, while a pathway was cut through the dwarf oaks and birchea 
which fringed the river bank, to enable the poet to saunter and muse without let or interruption. 
This attention was rewarded by an inscription for the hermitage, written with elegance as well as 
feeling, and which was the first fruits of his fancy in this unpoetic land. In a happier strain he 
remembered Matthew Henderson : this is one of the sweetest as well as happiest of his poetic 
compositions. He heard of his friend's death, and called on nature animate and inanimate, 
to lament the loss of one who held the patent of his honours from God alone, and who loved all 
that was pure and lovely and good. " The Whistle" is another of his Ellisland compositions : the 
contest which he has recorded with such spirit and humour took place almost at his door: tho 
heroes were Fergusson, of Craigdarroch, Sir Robert Laurie, of Maxwelltown, and Riddel, of 
the Friar's Carse : the poet was present, and drank bf)ttle and bottle about with the best, and 
when all was done he seemed much disposed, as an old servant at Friar's Carse remembered, to 
take up the victor. 

Burns had become fully reconciled to Nithsdale, and was on the most intimate terms with the 
muse when he produced Tam O'Shanter, the crowning glory of all his poems. For this m.arvelloua 
tale we are indebted to something like accident: Francis Grose, the antiquary, happened to visit 
Friar's Carse, and as he loved wine and wit, the total want of imagination was nr hinderance to 
his friendly intercourse with the poet: " Alloway's auld haunted kirk" was mentioned, and Grose 
laid he would include it in his illustrations of the antiquities of Scotland, if the bard of the 
Doon would write a poem to accompany it. Burns consented, and before he left the table, the 
►arious traditions wtih belonged to the ruin were passing through his mind. One of these was 



ELLISLAND — TAM O'SIIANTEK 



xItk 



85? A 'srsner, who, on a night wild with wind and rain, on passing the old kirk was startled ly a 
light glimmering inside the walls : on drawing near he saw a caldron hung over a ^vs, in which 
the heads and limbs of children were simmering: there was neither witch nor? fiend i.o guard it, 
80 he unhooked the caldron, turned out the contents, and carried it home as a tiophy. A second 
tradition was of a man of Kyle, who, having been on a market night detained late tt\ Ayr, oB 
srossing the old bridge of Doon, on his way home, saw a light streaming through the gtthic win 
iow :? Alloway kirk, and on riding near, beheld a batch of the district witches dancinjt merrily 
rouDi iheir master, the devil, who kept them "louping and flinging" to the sound of a bagpipe 
He knew several of the old crones, and smiled at their gambols, for they were dancing in theii 
jmccks : but one of them, and she happened to be young and rosy, had on a smock shorter than 
those of her companions by two spans at least, which so moved the farmer that he excliiraed, 
" Weel luppan, Maggie wi' the short sark !" Satan stopped his music, the light was extingu'shed, 
and out rxished the hags after the farmer, who made at the gallop for the bridge of Doon, kno-ring 
that they could not cross a stream: he escaped; but IMaggie, wh: was foremost, seized his hoi"?o'a 
tail at the middle of the bridge, and pulled it off in her efforts to stay him. 

This poem was the work of a single day: Burns walked out to his favourite musing path, 
which runs towards the old tower of the Isle, along Nithside, and was observed to walk hastily 
and mutter as he went. His wife knew by these signs that he was engaged in composition, and 
watched him from the window ; at last wearying, and moreover wondering at the unusual length 
cf his meditations, she took her children with her and went to meet him ; but as he seemed not 
*o see her, she stept aside among the broom to allow him to pass, which he did with a flushed 
brow and dropping eyes, reciting these lines aloud: — 

" Now Tarn ! O, Tarn ! had thae been queans, 
A'*plump and strapping in their teens, 
Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, 
Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen ! 
Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, 
That ance were plush, o' gude blue hair, 
1 wad hae gifen them aff my hurdies, 
For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies !" 



He embellished this wild tradition from fact as well as from fancy: along the road which Tam 
e&me on that eventful night his memory supplied circumstances which prepared him for the 
Btrange sight at the kirk of Alloway. A poor chapman had perished, some winters before, in the 
enow; a murdered child had been found by some early hunters ; a tippling farmer had fallen 
fromfhis horse at the expense of his neck, beside a " meikle stane ;" and a melancholy old woman 
had hanged herself at the bush aboon the well, as the poem relates : all these matters the poet 
pressed into the service of the muse, and used them with a skill which adorns rather thar 
oppresses the legend. A pert lawyer from Dumfries objected to the language as obscure: 
" Obscure, sir !" said Burns ; " you know not the language of that great master of your own arl 
— the devil. If you had a witch for your client you would not be able to manage her defence !" 

He wrote few poems after his marriage, but he composed many songs : the sweet voice of Mrs, 
Burns tnd the craving of Johnson's Museum will in some measure account for the number, but 
not for taeir variety, which is truly wonderful. In the history of that mournful strain. "Mary 
Ir Hsaven," we read the story of many of his lyrics, for they generally sprang from ms personal 
feelings: no poet has put more of himself into his poetry than Burns. "Eobert, though ill of a 
eold," said his wife, "had been busy all day — a day of September, 1789, with the shearers in 
the field, and as he had got most of the corn into the stack-yard, was in good spirits ; but whcB 
twilight came he grew sad about something, and could not rest : he wandered first up the water- 
side, and then went into the stack-yard : I followed, and begged him to come into the house, as 
he was ill, and the air was sharp and cold. He said, 'Ay, ay,' but did not come: he ihr 
himself iown en some loose sheaves, and lay looking at the sky, and particularly at a ' 
bright star, which shone like another moon. At last, but that was long after I had left 
•ain« heme- -the song was already composed." To the memory of Mary Campbell h© 



ilviii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS 

tkat touching ode ; and he thus intimates the continuance of his early affection for "The fair- 
haired lass of the west," in a letter of that time to Mrs. Dunlop. "If there is another life, it 
must be only for the just, the benevolent, the amiable, and the humane. What a flattering idea, 
then, is a world to come ! There shall I, with speechless agony of rapture, again recognise my 
lost, my ever dear Mary, whose bosom was fraught with truth, honour, constancy, and love." 
Shese melancnoly words gave way in their turn to others of a nature lively and humorous : " Tarn 
Gleu," in which the thoughts flow as freely as the waters of the Nith, on whose banks he wrote 
•t; ♦' Findlay," with its quiet vein of sly simplicity; "Willie brewed a peck o' maut," the first 
4 social, and " She's fair and fause," the first of sarcastic songs, with " The deil's awa wi' the 
Esciseman," are all productions of this period — a period which had besides its own fears and its 
own forebodings. 

For a while Burns seemed to prosper in his farm: he held the plough with his own hand, he 
guided the harrows, he distributed the seed-corn equally among the furrows, and he reaped tho 
crop in its season, and saw it safely covered in from the storms of winter with "thack and rape ;" 
bis wife, tro, superintended the dairy with a skill which she had brought from Kyle, and as the 
harvest, for a season or two, was abundant, and the dairy yielded butter and cheese for the 
market, it seemed that "the luckless^ star" which ruled his lot had relented, and now shont 
unboding and benignly. Eut much more is required than toil of hand to make a successful 
farmer, nor will the attention bestowed only by fits and starts, compensate for carelessness or 
oversight : frugality, not in one thing but in all, is demanded, in small matters as well as in great, 
while a careful mind and a vigilant eye must superintend the labours of servants, and the whole 
system of in-door and out-door economy. Now, during the three years which Burns stayed in 
Ellisland, he neither wrought with that constant diligence which farming demands, nor did he 
bestow upon it the unremitting attention of eye and mind which such a farm required : besides 
his skill in husbandry was but moderate — the rent, though of his own fixing, was too high for 
him and for the times ; the ground, though good, was not so excellent as he might have had on 
the same estate — he employed more servants than the number of acres demanded, and spread for 
them a richer board than common: when we have said this we need not add the expensive tastes 
induced by poetry, to keep readers from starting, when they are told that Burns, at the close of 
the third year of occupation, resigned his lease to the landlord, and bade farewell for ever to the 
plough. He was not, however, quite desolate ; he had for a year or more been appointed on the 
excise, and had superintended a district extending to ten large parishes, with applause ; indeed, 
it has been assigned as the chief reason for failure in his farm, that when the plough or the sickle 
summoned him to the field, he was to be found, either pursuing the defaulters of the revenue, 
among the valleys of Dumfrieshire, or measuring out pastoral verse to the beauties of the land. 
He retired to a house in the Bank-vennel of Dumfries, and commenced a town-life : he commenced 
it with an empty pocket, for Ellisland had swallowed up all the profits of his poems : he had now 
neither a barn to produce meal nor barley, a barn-yard to yield a fat hen, a field to which h« 
30uld go at Martinmas for a mart, nor a dairy to supply milk and cheese and butter to the table 
—he had, in snort, all to buy and little to buy with. He regarded it as a compensation that hp 
bad no farm-rent to provide, no bankruptcies to dread, no horse to keep, for his excise duties were 
now confined to Dumfries, and that the burthen of a barren farm. was removed from his mind, and 
his muse at liberty to renew her unsolicited strains. . 

But from the day of his departure from " the barren" Ellisland, the downward course of Burns 
may be dated. The cold neglect of his country had driven him back indignantly to the plough, 
and he hoped to gain from the furrowed field that independence which it was the duty of Scotlami 
to have provided: but he did not resume the plough with all the advantages he possessed when 
he first forsook it : he had revelled in the luxuries of polished life — his tastes had been rendered 
expensive as well as pure : he had witnessed, and he hoped for the pleasures of literary retire- 
ment, while the hands which had led jewelled dames over scented carpets to supper tables loaded 
with silver took hold of the hilts of the plough with more of reluctance than goodwill. Edinburgh, 
Vith its lords and its ladies, its delights and its hopes, spoiled him for farming. Nor were hie 
tew labours more acceptable to his haughty spirit than those of the plough : the excise for » 



HIS DUTIES AS EXCISEMAN. xlix 

eentiuy had been a word of opprobrium or of hatred in the north : the* duties -which it imposed 
were regarded, not by peasants alone, as a serious encroachment upon the ancie"' .xghts of the 
nation, and to mislead, a gauger, or resist him, even to blood, was considere*^ j few as a fauH. 
That the brightest genius of the nation — one whose tastes and sensibilitie' ^e so peculiarly its 
own — should be, as a reward, set to look after run-rum and smuggka tobacco, and to gauge 
ale-wife's barrels, was a regret and a marvel to many, and a source of bitter merriment to Burns 
himself. 

The duties of his situation were however performed punctually, if not with pleasure : he was a 
Tigilant officer; he was also a merciful and considerate one: though loving a joke, and not at all 
averse to a dram, he walked among suspicious brewers, captious ale-wives, and frowning shop- 
keepers as uprightly as courteously : he smoothed the ruggedest natures into acquiescence by hia 
gayety and humour, and yet never gave cause for a malicious remark, by allowing his vigilance 
to slumber. He was brave, too, and in the capture of an armed smuggler, in which he led the 
attack, showed that he neither feared water nor fire : he loved, also, to counsel the more forward 
of the smugglers to abandon their dangerous'calling; his sympathy for the helpless poor induced 
him to give them now and then notice of his approach ; he has been known to interpret the severe 
laws of the excise into tenderness and mercy in behalf of the widow and the fatherless. In all 
this hf Jid but his duty to his country and his kind : and his conduct was so regarded by a very 
competent and candid judge. " Let me look at the books of Burns," said Maxwell, of Terraughty, 
at the meeting of the district magistrates, "for they show that an upright officer may be a 
merciful one." With a salary of some seventy pounds a year, the chance of a few guineas annually 
from the future editions of his poems, and the hope of rising at some distant day to the more 
lucrative situation of supervisor. Burns continued to live in Dumfries ; first i-i the Bank-vennel, 
and next in a small house in a humble street, since called by his name. 

In his earlier years the poet seems to have scattered songs as thick as a summer eve scatters 
its dews ; nor did he scatter them less carelessly . he appears, indeed, to have thought much less 
of them than of his poems : the sweet song of Mary Morison, and others not at all inferior, lay 
uure^^d-rded among his papers till accident called them out to shine and be admired. Many of 
these brief but happy compositions, sometimes with his name, and oftener without, he threw in 
dozens at a time into Johnson, where they were noticed only by the captious Ritson : but now a 
work of higher pretence claimed a share in his skill: in September, 1792, he was requested by 
George Thomson to render, for his national collection, the poetry worthy of the muses of the 
north, and to take compassion on many choice airs, which had waited for a poet like the auihor of 
the Cotter's Saturday Night, to wed them to immortal verse. To engage in such an undertaking, 
Burns required small persuasion, and while Thomson asked for strains delicate and jolished, tbe 
poet characteristically stipulated that his contributions were to be without remuneration, and the 
language seasoned with a sprinkling of the Scottish dialect. As his heart was much in the matter, 
ue began to pour out verse with a readiness and talent unknown in the history of song: hia 
engagement with Thomson, and his esteem for Johnson, gave birth to a series of songs as brilliant 
as varied, and as naturally easy as they were gracefully original. In looking over those very 
dissimilar collections it is not difficult to discover that the songs which he wrote for the more 
stately woi-k, while they are more polished and elegant than those which he contributed to the 
less pretending one, are at the same time less happy in their humour and less simple in their 
pathos. "What pleases me as simple and naive," says Burns to Thomson, "disgusts you as 
ludicrous and low. For this reason 'Fye, gie me my coggie, sirs,' 'Bye, let us a' to the bridal,' 
with several otters of that cast, are to me highly pleasing, while ' Saw ye my Fattar' delights me 
with its descriptive simple pathos :" we read in these words the reasons of the difference between 
the lyrics of the two collections. 

The land where the poet lived furnished ready materials for song : hills with fine woods, vales 
with clear waters, and dames as lovely as any recorded in verse, were to be had in his walks 
and hia visits ; while, for the purposes of mirth or of humour, characters, in whose faces originality 
was legibly written, were as numerous in Nithsdale as he had found them in the west. He had 
C««n reproached, while in Kyle, with seeing charms in very ordinary looks, and hangipir tb« 



LIFE OF KOBEIIT BUENS 



garlands of the muse on unlovely altars; he was liable to no such censure in Nithsdale; h« 
poured out the incense of poetry only on the fair and captivating : his Jeans, his Lucys, hit 
Phillises, and his Jessies were ladies of such mental or personal charms as the Reynoldfl'S 
and the Lawrences of the time would have rejoiced to lay out their choicest colours on. Bui 
be did not limit himself to the charms of those whom he could step out to the walks anv. 
admire : his lyrics give evidence of the wandering of his thoughts to the distant or the dead — h« 
loves to remember Charlotte Hamilton and Mary Campbell, and think of the sighs and vowa on 
the Devon and the Doon, whilfe his harpstrings were still quivering to the names of the Millers aai 
the M'Murdos — to the charms of the lasses with golden or with flaxen locks, in the valley where 
he dwelt. Of Jean M'Murdo and her sister Phillis he loved to sing; and their beauty merited 
Ma strains : to one who died in her bloom, Lucy Johnston, he addressed a song of great sweet- 
ness ; to Jessie Lewars, two or three songs of gratitude and praise : nor did he forget other 
beauties, for the accomplished Mrs. Riddel is remembered, and the absence of fair Clarinda ia 
lamented in strains both impassioned and pathetic. 

But the main inspirer of the latter songs of Bui-ns was a young woman of humble birth : of a 
form equal to the most exquisite proportions of sculpture, with bloom on her cheoks„ and merri- 
ment in her large bright eyes, enough to drive an amatory poet crazy. Her name was Jean 
Lorimer ; she was not more than seventeen when the poet made her acquaintance, and though 
she had got a sort of brevet-right from an officer of the army, to use his southron name of Whelp 
dale, she loved best to be addressed by her maiden designation, while the poet chose to veil her 
in the numerous lyrics, to which she gave life, under the names of "Chloris," "The lass of 
Craigie-burnwood," and "The lassie wi' the lintwhite locks." Though of a temper not much 
inclined to conceal anything, Burns complied so tastefully with the growing demand of the age 
f 3r the exterior decencies of life, that when the scrupling dames of Caledonia sung a new song 
in her praise, they were as unconscious whmee its beauties came, as is the lover of art, that the 
shape and the gracefulness of the marble njmph which he admires, are derived from a creature 
who sells the use of her charms indiiferentlj *i.o sculpture or to love. .Fine poetry, like other arts 
called fine, springs from " strange places," »« the flower in the fable said, when it bloomed on 
the dunghill ; nor is Burns more to be blamt-1 than was Raphael, who painted Madonnas, and 
Magdalens with dishevelled hair and lifted e„fes, from a loose lady, whom the pope, "Holy at 
Rome — here Antichrist," charitably prescribed to the artist, while he laboured in the cause of 
the church. Of the poetic use which he made o;' Jean Lorimer's charms. Burns gives this account 
to Thomson. "The lady on whom the song of I'vaigie-burnwood was made is one of the finest 
women in Scotland, and in fact is to me in a manaer what Sterne's Eliza was to him — a mistress, 
or friend, #r what you will, in the guileless simplicity of platonic love. I assure you that to my 
lovely friend yoxi are indebted for many of my best songs. Do you think that the sober gin-horse 
routine of existence could inspire a man with life and love and joy — could fire him with enthusiasm 
or melt hi n with pathos, equal to the genius of your book ? No ! no ! Whenever I want to be 
more than ordinary in song — to be in some degree equal to your diviner airs — do you imagine I 
fast and pray for the celestial emanation ? Quite the contrary. I have a glorious recipe ; the 
very one that for his own use was invented by the divinity of healing and poesy, when er&i h« 
fiped to the flocks of Admetus. I put myself in a regimen of admiring a fine woman; and in 
proportion to the adorability of her charms, in proportion are you delighted with my verses. 
The iightning of her eye is the godhead of Parnassus, and the witchery of her smile, the diTinit) 
ai Helicon." 

Most of the songs which he composed under the influences to which I have alluded are of the 
first order: "Bonnie Lesley," "Hifhland Mary," "Auld Rob Morris," "Duncan Gray," "Wan 
dering Willie," " Meg o' the Mill," " The poor and honest sodger," " Bonnie Jean," " Phillis ths 
fair," "John Anderson my Jo,"« " Had I a cave on some wild distant shore," " Whistle and Til com* 
to you, my lad," " Bruce's Address to his men at Bannockburn," " Auld Lang Syne," " Thine am 
I, my faithful fair," " Wilt thou be my dearie," " Chloris, mark how green the groves," " Con 
tented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair," " Their groves of sweet myrtle," " Last May a braw wooet 
same diwnthe lang glen, "0 Mally's meek, Mally's sweet," " Hey for r lass wi' a tocher.* 



THE HERON BALLADS. 



"Here's a health to ane I loe dear," and the "Fairest maid on Devon banks." Many of th« 
latter lyrics of Burns were move or less altered, to put them into better harmony with the aire, 
«iid I am not the only one who has wondered that a bard so impetuous and intractable in mcsl 
taatters, should have become so soft and pliable, as to make changes which too often sacrificed 
the poetry for the sake of a fuller and more swelling sound. It is true that the emphatic notes 
of the music must find their echo in the emphatic words of the verse, and that words soft and 
liquid are fitter for ladies' lips, than words hissing and rough; but it is also true that in chang'mg 
A harsher word for one more harmonious the sense often suffers, and that happiness of expression, 
tnd that dance of words which lyric verse requires, lose much of their life and vigour. Thfl 
poet's favourite walk in composing his songs was on a beautiful green sward on the northern sid« 
of the Nith, opposite Lincluden ; and his favourite posture for composition at home was balancing 
himself on the hind legs of his arm-chair. 

While indulging in these lyrical flights, politics penetrated into Nithsdale, and disturbed th« 
tranquillity of that secluded region. First, there came a contest for the representation of the 
Dumfries district of boroughs, between Patrick Miller, younger, of Dalswinton, and Sir Jamea 
/ohnstone, of Westerhall, and somfe two years afterwards, a struggle for the representation of the 
county of Kirkcudbright, between the interest of the Stewarts, of Galloway, and Patrick Heron, 
of Kerroughtree. In the first of these the poet mingled discretion with his mirth, and raised a 
hearty laugh, in which both parties joined; for this sobriety of temper, good reasons maybe 
assigned : Miller, the elder, of Dalswinton, had desired to oblige him in the affair of EUisland, 
and his firm and considerate friend, M'Murdo, of Drumlanrig, was chamberlain to his Grace of 
Queensbury, on whose interest Miller stood. On the other hand, his old Jacobitical affections 
made him the secret well-wisher to Westerhall, for up to this time, at least till acid disappoint- 
ment and the democratic doctrine of the natural equality of man influenced him. Burns, or as a 
western rhymer of his day and district worded the reproach — Rob was a Tory. His situation, it 
will therefore be observed, disposed him to moderation, and accotmts for the milkiness of his 
Epistle to Fintray, in which he marshals the chiefs of the contending factions, and foretells the 
fierceness of the strife, without pretending to foresee the event. Neither is he more explicit, 
though infinitely more humorous, in his ballad of " The Five Carlins," in which he impersonates 
the five boroughs — Dumfries, Kirkcudbright, Lochmaben, Sanquhar, and Annan, and drawa 
their characters as shrewd and calculating dames, met in much wrath and drink to choose a 
representative. 

But the two or three years which elapsed between the eloctibn for the boroughs, and that for 
the county adjoining, wrought a serious change in the temper as well as the opinions of the poet 
His Jacobitism, as has been said, was of a poetic kind, and put on but in obedience to old feelings, 
and made no part of the man : he was in his heart as democratic as the kirk of Scotland, which 
educated him — he acknowledged no other superiority but the mental : " he was disposed, too," 
Baid Professor Walker, "from constitutional temper, from education and the accidents of life, to 
a jealousy of power, and a keen hostility against every system which enabled birth and opulence 
to anticipate those rewards which he conceived to belong to genius and virtue." When we add 
to this, a resentment of the injurious treatment of the dispensers of public patronage, who had 
neglected his claims, and showered pensions and places on men unworthy of being named witl: 
hJm, we have assigned causes for the change of side and the tone of asperity and bitterness 
Isfrsed into " The Heron Ballads." Formerly honey was mixed with his gall : a little praise 
sweetened his censure : in these election lampoons he is fierce and even venomous : — no man has 
a head but what is empty, nor a heart that is not black: men descended without reproach from 
lines of heroes are stigmatized as cowards, and the honest and conscientious are reproached as 
miserly, mean, and dishonourable. Such is the spirit of party. " I have privately," thus writes 
the poet to Heron, " printed a good many copies of the ballads, and have sent them. among friends 
about the country. You have already, as your auxiliary, the sober detestation of mankind on 
the heads of your opponents ; and I swear by the lyre of Thalia, to muster on your side all the 
notaries of honest laughter and fair, candid ridicule." The ridicule was uncandid, and the 
"aughter dishonest. The poet was unfortunate in his political attachments : Miller gained thi 



^^m^ 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS 



boroughs which Burns wished he might lose, and Heron lost the county which he foretold he would 
gain. It must^lso be recorded against the good taste of the poet, that he loved to recite " The 
Heron Ballads," and reckon them among his happiest compositions. 

From attacking others, the poet was — in the interval between penning these election lampoons 
— called on to defend himself: for this he seems to have been quite unprepared, though in those 
yeasty times he might have expected it. " I have been surprised, confounded, and distracted,' 
he thus writes to Graham, of Fintray, "by Mr. Mitchell, the collector, telling me that he haa 
received an order from your board to inquire into my political conduct, and blaming me as a per- 
son disaflfected to government. Sir, you are a husband and a father : you know what you would 
fsel, to seo the much-loved wife of your bosom, and your helpless prattling little ones, turned 
adrift into the world, degraded and disgraced, from a situation in which they had been respectable 
and respected. I would not tell a deliberate falsehood, no, not though even worse horrors, if 
worse can je than those I have mentioned, hung over my head, and I say that the allegation, 
whatever villain has made it, is a lie ! To the British constitution, on Revolution principles, next 
^after my God, I am devotedly attached. To your patronage as a man of some genius, you have 
allowed me a claim ; and your esteem as an honest man I know is my due. To these, sir, permit 
me to appeal : by these I adjure you to save me from that misery which threatens to overwhelm 
me, and which with my latest breath I will say I have not deserved." In this letter, another, 
intended for the eye of the Commissioners of the Board of Excise, was enclosed, in which be dis- 
claimed entertaining the idea of a British republic — a wild dream of the day — ]but stood by the 
principles of the constitution of 1688, with the wish to see such corruptions as had crept in, 
amended. This last remark, it appears, by a letter from the poet to Captain Erskine, afterwards 
Earl of Mar, gave great offence, for Corbet, one of the superiors, was desired to inform him, "thaX 
nis business was to act, and not to think ; and that whatever might be men or measures, it was 
his duty to be silent and obedient." The intercession of Fintray, and the explanations of Burns, 
were so far effectual, that his political offence was forgiven, "only I understand," said he, "that 
all hopes of my getting officially forward are blasted." The records of the Excise Office exhibit 
no trace of this memorable matter, and two noblemen, who were then in the government, have 
assured me that this harsh proceeding received no countenance at head-quarters, and must have 
originated with some ungenerous or malicious person, on whom the poet had spilt a little of the 
nitric acid of his wrath. 

That Burns was numbered among the republicans of Dumfries I well remember : but then 
those who held different sentiments from the men in power, were all, in that loyal town, stigma 
tized as democrats : that he either desired to see the constitution changed, or his country invaded 
by the liberal French, who proposed to set us free with the bayonet, and then admit us to the 
'fraternal embrace," no one ever believed. It is true that he spoke of premiers and peers with 
contempt ; that he hesitated to take off his hat in the theatre, to the air of " God save thfe king ;" 
that he refused to drink the health of Pitt, saying he preferred that of Washington — a far greater 
man ; that he wrote bitter words against that combination of princes, who desired to put down 
freedom in France ; that he said the titled spurred and the wealthy switched England and Scot- 
.and lik« two hack-horses ; and that all the high places of the land, instead of being filled by 
genius and talent, were occupied, as were the high-places of Israel, with idols of wood or of 
stone. But all this and more had been done and said before by thousands in this land, whose 
lore of their country was never questioned. That it was bad taste to refuse to remove his hit 
when other heads were bared, and little better to refuse to pledge in company the name of Pitt, 
Decause he preferred "Washington, cannot admit of a doubt ; but that he deserved to be written 
down waiter, for mere matters of whim or caprice, or to be turned out of the unenvied situation 
of " gauging auld wives' barrels," because he thought there were some stains on the white robe 
of the constitution, seems a sort of tyranny new in the hjstory of oppression. His love of 
Bountry is recorded in too many undying lines to admit of a doubt now : nor is it that chivalrous 
love alone which men call romantic ; it is a love which may be laid up in every man's heart and 
practised in every man's life; the words are homely, but the words of Burns are always 
«xpT8?sive: — 



HIS ILLNESS— LETTER TO CLARKE. li* 

"The kettle of the kirk and state " 

Perhaps a clout may fail in't, 
But deil a foreign tinkler loon 

Shall ever ca' a nail in't. 
Be Britons still to Britons true, 

Amang ourselves united ; 
For never but by British hands 

Shall British wrongs be righted." 

Bai -while verses, deserving as these do to become the national motto, and sentiments loyal «i^ 
generous, were overlooked and forgotten, all his rash words about freedom, and his sarcastio 
sallies about thrones and kings, were treasured up to his injury, by the mean and the maliciaus 
His steps were watched and his words weighed ; when he talked with a friend in the street, ha 
was supposed to utter sedition ; and when ladies retired from the table, and the wine circulated 
with closed doors, he was suspected of treason rather than of toasting, which he often did with 
much humour, the charms of woman; even when he gave as a sentiment, "May our success be 
equal to the justice of our cause," he was liable to be challenged by some gunpowder captain, 
who thought that we deserved success in war, whether right or wrong. It is true that he hated 
with a most cordial hatred all who presumed on their own consequence, whether arising from 
wealth, titles, or commissions in the army; of&cers he usually called "the epauletted puppies," 
and lords he generally spoke of as "feather-headed fools," who could but strut and stare and be 
msolent. All this was not to be endured meekly : scorn was answered with scorn ; ami having 
no answer in kind to retort his satiric flings, his unfriends reported that it was unsafe ftir young 
men to associate with one whose principles were democratic, and scarcely either modest or safe 
for young women to listen to a poet whose notions of female virtue were so loose and his songs 
so free. These sentiments prevailed so far that a gentleman on a visit from London, told me he 
was dissuaded from inviting Burns to a dinner, given by way of welcome back to his native place, 
because he was the associate of democrats and loose people ; and when a modest dame of Dumfries 
expressed, through a friend, a wish to have but the honour of speaking to one of whose genius she 
was an admirer, the poet declined the interview, with a half-serious smile, saying, " Alas ! she 
Is handsome, and you know the character publicly assigned to me." She escaped the danger of 
being numbered, it is likely, with the Annas and the Chlorises of his freer strains. 

The neglect of his country, the tyranny, of the Excise, and the downfall of his hopes and for- 
tunes, were now to bi*ing forth their fruits — the poet's health began to decline. His drooping 
looks, his neglect of his person, his solitary saunterings, his escape from the stings of reflection 
into socialities, and his distempered joy in the company of beauty, all spoke, as plainly as with a 
tongue, of a sinking heart and a declining body. Yet though he was sensible of sinking health, 
hope did not at once desert him : he continued to pour out such tender strains, and to show such 
flashes of wit and humour at the call of Thomson, as are recorded of no other lyrist: neither did 
he, when in company after his own mind, hang the head, and speak mournfully, but talked and 
Bmiled and still charmed all listeners by his witty vivacities. 

On the 26th of June, 1795, he writes thus of his fortunes and condition to his friend Olarkf^ 
" Still, still the victim of affliction ; were you to see the emaciated figure who now holds the pen 
to you, you would not know your old friend. Whether I shall ever get about again is only known 
to Him, the Great Unknown, whose creature I am. Alas, Clarke, I begin to fear the worst ! Al 
to my individual self I am tranquil, and would despise myself if I were not: but Burns's poo? 
widow and half-a-dozen of his dear little ones, helpless orphans ! Here I am as weak as a woman i 
tear. Enough of this ! 'tis half my disease. I duly received your last, enclosing the note : it 
came extremely in time, and I am much obliged to your punctuality. Again I must request you 
to do me the same kindness. Be so very good as by return of post to enclose me another note : 1 
trust you can do so without inconvenience, and it will seriously oblige me. If I must go, I leav« 
a few friends behind me, whom I shall regret while consciousness remains. I know I shall live in 
their remembrance. 0, dear, dear Clarke I that I shall ever see you again is I am afraid highly 
ajprobable." This remarkable letter proves both the declining health, and, the poverty of the 
|!iet: Li£ iigestion was so bad uhat he could taste neither flesh nor fish: porridge and milk h* 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



Bould alone swallow, and that but in small quantities. When it is recollected that he had no mor« 
khan thirty shillings a week to keep house, and live like a gentleman, no one need wonder that hia 
wife hai to be obliged to a generous neighbour for some of the chief necessaries for her coming 
confinement, and that the poet had to beg, in extreme need, two guinea notes from a distant friend. 

His sinking state was not unobserved by his friends, and Syme and M'Murdo united with Dr. 
Maxwell in persuading him, at the beginning of the summer, to seek health at the Brow-well, a 
few miles east of Dumfries, where there were pleasant walks on the Solway-side, and salubrious 
breezes from the sea, which it was expected would bring the health to the poet they had 
brought to many. For a while, his looks brightened up, and health seemed inclined to return: 
his friend, the witty and accomplished Mrs. Riddel, who was herself ailing, paid him a visit. 
"I was struck," she said, "with his appearance on entering the room: the stamp of death was 
Impressed on his features. His first words were, ' Well, Madam, have you any commands for the 
other world ?' I replied that it seemed a doubtful case which of us should be there soonest ; he 
looked in my face with an air of great kindness, and expressed his concern at seeing me so ill, 
with his usual sensibility. At table he ate little or nothing : we had a long conversation about 
bis present state, and the approaching termination of all his earthly prospects. He showed great 
concern about his literary fame, and particularly the publication of his posthumous works ; he 
paid he was well aware that his death would occasion some noise, an'^ *ha* ^^verv '3cr<»,n of his writing 
would be revived against him, to the injury of his future reputation; that letters and versee, 
written with unguarded freedom, would be handed about by vanity or malevolence when no dread 
of his resentment would restrain them, or prevent malice or envy from pouring forth their Venom 
on his name. I had seldom seen his mind greater, or more collected. There was fiequently a 
considerable degree of vivacity in his sallies ; but the concern and dejection I could not disguise, 
damped the spirit of pleasantry he seemed willing to indulge." This was on the evening of the 
5th of July ; another lady who called to see him, found him seated at a window, gazing on the 
snn, then setting brightly on the summits of the green hills of Nithsdale. " Look how lovely the 
sun is," said the poet, " but he will soon have done with shining for me." 

He now longed for home : his wife, whom he ever tenderly loved, was about to be confined in 
child-bed: his papers were in sad confusion, and required arrangement; and he felt that desire 
to die, at least, among familiar things and friendly faces, so common to our nature. He had not 
long before, though much reduced in pocket, refused with scorn an ofi'er of fifty pounds, which a 
speculating bookseller made, for leave to publish his looser compositions ; he had refused an 
oifer of the like sum yearly, from Perry of the Morning Chronicle, for poetic contributions to his 
paper, lest it might embroil him with the ruling powers, and he had resented the remittance of 
five pounds from Thomson, on account of his lyric contributions, and desired him to do so no 
more, unless he wished to quarrel with him ; but his necessities now, and they had at no time 
been so great, induced him to solicit five pounds from Thomson, and ten pounds from his cousin, 
James Burness, of Montrose, and to beg his friend Alexander Cunningham to intercede with the 
Commissioners of Excise, to depart from their usual practice, and grant him his full salary; "foi 
without that," he added, "if I die not of disease, I must perish with hunger." Thomson sent the 
five pounds, James Burness sent the ten, but the Commissioners of Excise refused to be either 
merciful or generous. Stobie, a young expectant in the customs, was both ; — he performed tho 
duties of the dying poet, and refused to touch the salary. The mind of Burns was haunted witls 
the fears of want and the terrors of a jail; nor were those fears without foundation; one WiL 
(iamson, to whom he was indebted for the cloth to make his volunteer regimentals, threatened the 
one ; and a feeling that he was without money for either his own illness or the confinement of bia 
wife, threatened the other. 

Bm-ns returned from the Brow-well, on the 18th of July: as he walked from the little carriage 
frhich brought him up the Mill hole-brae to his own door, he trembled much, and stooped with 
weakness and pain, and kept his feet with difficulty: his looks were woe-worn and ghastly, and 
BO one who saw him, and there were several, expected to see him again in life. It was soon cir 
culated through Dumfries, that Burns had returned worse from the Brow-well; that Maxweh 
bh ught ill of him, and that, in truth, he was dying. The anxiety of all classes was great; dif 



HIS DEATH. 



ferences of opinion were forgotten, in sympathy for his early fate : wherever two or three wew 
Diet together their talk was of Burns, of his rare wit, matchless humour, the vivacity of his con- 
versation, and the kindness of his heart. To the popt himself, death, which he now knew was all 
hand, brought with it no fear; his good-humour, which small matters alone ruffled, did not 
forsake him, and his wit was ever ready. He was poor — he gave his pistols, which he had used 
against the smugglers on the Solway, to his physician, adding with a smile, that he had tried 
them and found them an honour to their maker, which was more than he could say of the bul^ 
of mankind ! He was proud — he remembered the indifferent practice of the corps to which ho 
belonged, and turning to Gibson, one of his fellow-soldiers, who stood at his bedside with wet 
eyi*? " John," said he, and a gleam of humour passed over his face, " pray don't let the awkward- 
Bqaai fire over me." It was almost the last act of his life to copy into his Common-place Book, the 
letters which contained the charge against him of the Commissioners of Excise, and his own eloquent 
refutation, leaving judgment to be pronounced by the candour of posterity. 

It has been injuriously said of Burns, by Coleridge, that the man sunk, but the poet was bright 
tc the last: he did not sink in the sense that these words imply: the man was manly to the latest 
draught of breath. That he was a poet to the last, can be proved by facts, as well as by the "word 
of the author of Christabel. As he lav silently growing weaker and weaker, he observed Jessie 
Lt«ars, .V mv.aest ^nd ui;auiiial yoan^ ^reulure, i:,nd iistex ^o oae of .-is buthvea oi .he i-xcise, 
watching over him with moist eyes, and tending him with the care of a daughter ; he rewarded 
her with one of those songs which are an insurance against forgetfulness. The lyrics of the north 
Uavt iiotLliig hiier \ix&t* this txquiviice Si,&nza . — 



' Altho' thou maun never be mine, 
Altho' even hope is denied, 
'Tis sweeter for thee despairing, 
Than aught in the world beside." 



His thoughts as he lay w;andered to Charlotte Hamilton, and he dedicated some beautiful stanza* 
to her beauty and her coldness, beginning, "Fairest maid on Devon banks." 

It was a sad sight to see the poet gradually sinking ; his wife in hourly expectation of her sixth 
confinement, and his four helpless' children — a daughter, a sweet child, had died the year before 
-with no one of their lineage to soothe them with kind words or minister to their wants. Jessie 
Lewars, with equal prudence and attention, watched over them all : she could not help seeing 
that the thoughts of the desolation which his death would bring, pressed sorely on him, for he 
loved his children, and hoped much from his boys. He wrote to his father-in-law, James Armour, 
at Mauchline, that he was dying, his wife nigh her confinement, and begged that his mother-in 
law would hasten to them and speak comfort. He wrote to Mrs. Dunlop, saying, " I have written 
to you so often without receiving any answer that I would not trouble you again, but for the cxv- 
eumsitinces in which I am. An illness which has long hung about me in all probability will speedily 
lend me beyond that bourne whence no traveller returns. Your friendship, with wblch for many 
years you honoured me, was a friendship dearest to my soul : your conversation aii.d your corrt, 
spondence were at once highly entertaining, and instructive — with what pleasure did I use t« 
break up the seal ! The remembrance yet adds one pulse more to my poor palpitating heart. 
Farewell !" A tremor pervaded his frame ; his tongue grew parched, and he was at timei 
delirious: on the fourth day after his return, when his attendant, James Maclure, held his medi' 
cine to his lips, he swallowed it eagerly, rose almost wholly up, spread out his hands, sprang 
forward nigh the whole length of the bed, fell on his face, and expired. He died on he 21st df 
July, when nearly thirty-seven years and seven months old. ' 

The burial of Burns, on the 25th of July, was an impressive and mournful scene: half the 
people of Nithsdale and the neighbouring parts of Galloway had crowded into Dumfries, to see 
their poet " mingled with the earth," and not a few had been permitted to look at his body, laid 
*ut for interment. It was a calm and beautiful day, and as the body was borne along the street 
towards the old kirk-yard, by his brethren of the volunteers, not a sound was heard but th« 
measured step and the solemn music : there was no impatient crushing, no fierce elbowine — Hm 



iTi LIFE OF EOBEET BURNS. 

crowd which filled the street seemed conscious what they were now losing for ever. Even whil< 
this pageant was passing, the widow of the poet was taken in labour ; but the infant born in 
that unhappy hour soon shared his father's grave. On reaching the northern nook of the kirk 
yard, where the grave was made, the mourners halted ; the coffin was divested of the mort-cloth, 
and silently lowered to its resting-place, and as the first shovel-full of earth fell on the lid, tho 
volunteers, too agitated to be steady, justified the fears of the poet, by three ragged volleys. Ha 
wh' now writes this very brief and imperfect account, was present :. he thought then, as he thinka 
DOW, that all the military array of foot and horse did not harmonize with either the genius or the 
fortune of the poet, and that the tears which he. saw on many cheeks around, as the earth was 
replaced, were worth all the splendour of a show which mocked with unintended mockery the 
burial of the poor and neglected Burns. The body of the poet was, on the 5th of June, 1815, 
removed to a more commodious spot in the same burial-ground — his dark, waving locks looked 
then fresh and glossy — to afford room for a marble monument, which embodies, with neither skill 
nor grace, that well-known passage in the dedication to the gentlemen of the Caledonian Hunt: 
— "The poetic genius of my country found me, as the prophetic bard, Elijah, did Elisha, at the 
plough, and threw her inspiring mantle over me." The dust of the bard was again disturbed, 
when the body of Mrs. Burns was laid, in April, 1834, beside the remains of her husband : his 
skull was dug up by the district craniologists, to satisfy their minds by measurement that he was 
equal to the composition of "Tarn o' Shanter," or "Mary in Heaven." This done, they placed 
the skull in a leaden box, " carefully lined with the softest materials," and returned it, we hope 
for ever, to the hallowed ground. 

Thus lived and died Robert Burns, the chief of Scottish poets : in his person he was tall and 
sinewy, and of such strength and activity, that Scott alone, of all the poets I have seen, seemed 
his equal : his forehead was broad, his hair black, with an inclination to curl, his visage uncom- 
monly swarthy, his eyes large, dark and lustrous, and his voice deep and manly. His sensibility 
was strong, his passions full to overflowing, and he loved, nay, adored, whatever was gentle and 
beautiful. He had, when a lad at the plough, an eloquent word and an inspired song for every 
fair face that smiled on him, and a sharp sarcasm or a fierce lampoon for every rustic who 
thwarted or contradicted him. As his first inspiration came from love, he continued through life 
to love on, and was as ready with the. lasting incense of the muse for th^ ladies of Nithsdale as 
for the lasses of Kyle : his earliest song was in praise of a young girl who reaped by his side, 
when he was seventeen — his latest in honour of a lady by whose side he had wandered and 
dreamed on the banks of the Devon. He was of a nature proud and suspicious, and towards the 
close of his life seemed disposed to regard all above him in rank as men who unworthily possessed 
the patrimony of genius ; he desired to see the order of nature restored, and worth and talent in 
precedence of the base or the dull. He had no medium in his hatred or his love ; he never spared 
the stupid, as if they were not to be endured because he was bright ; and on the heads of the 
innocent possessors of titles or wealth he was ever ready to shower his lampoons. He loved to 
?tart doubts in religion which he knew inspiration only could solve, and he spoke of Calvinism 
with a latitude of language that grieved pious listeners. He was warm-hearted and generous te 
ft degree, above all men, and scorned all that was selfish and mean with a scorn quite romantic. 
He was a steadfast friend and a good neighbour : while he lived at Ellisland few passed his dooT 
without being entertained at his table ; and even when in poverty, on the Millhole-brae, the pcoJ 
Beldom left his door but with^blessings on their lips. 

Of his modes of study he has himself informed us, as well as of the seasons and places in 
which he loved to muse. He composed while he strolled along the secluded banks of the Doon, 
the Ayr, or the Nittf ; as the images crowded on his fancy his pace became quickened, and in 
his highest moods he was excited even to tears. He loved the winter for its leafless trees, its 
swelling flcTods, ana its winds which swept along the gloomy sky, with frost and snow on theil 
wings ; but he loved the autumn more — he has neglected to say why — the muse was then mor» 
liberal of her favours, and he composed with a happy alacrity unfelt in all other seasons. H« 
filled his mind and heart with the materials of song — and retired from gazing on woman's beauty. 



HIS GENIUS AND INSPIRATION. 



ivi 



imd from the excitement of her charms, to record his impres?ions in verse, as a painter delineated 
on his canvas the looks of those who sit to his pencil. His chief place of study at Ellisland ia 
Btill remembered : it extends along the river-bank towards the Isle : there the neighbouring gentry 
love to walk and peasants to gather, and hold it sacred, as the place where he composed Tarn 
O'Sharter. His favourite place of study when residing in Dumfries, was the ruins of Lincluden 
College made classic by that sublime ode, " The Vision," and that level and clovery sward con- 
(aguoufi tfi the College, on the northern side of the Nith ; the latter place was his favourite resort ; 
It id kikiwn now by the name of Burns's musing ground, and there he conceived many of his lattet 
lyrics. In case of interruption he completed the verses at the fireside, where he swung to and fro 
m h-5 arm-chair till the task was done : he then submitted the song to the ordeal of his wife's 
yoice, yhich was both sweet and clear, and while she sung he listened attentively, and altdjred or 
amended till the whole was in harmony, music and words. 

The genius of Burns is of a high order : in brightness of expression and unsolicited ease and 
natural vehemence of language, he stands in the first rank of poets : in choice of subjects, in 
happiness of conception, and loftiness of imagination, he recedes into the second. He owes little 
of his fame to his subjects, for, saving the beauty of a few ladies, they were all of an ordinary 
kind: he sought neither in romance nor in history for themes to tiJe muse; he took up topics 
from life around which were familiar to all, and endowed them with character, with passion, with 
tenderness, with humour — elevating all that he touched into the regions of poetry and morals. 
He went to no far lands for the purpose of surprising us with wonders, neither did he go to 
crowns or coronets to attract the stare of the peasantry around him, by things which to them 
were as a book shut and sealed: "The Daisy" grew on the lands which he ploughed; "The 
Mouse" built her frail nest on his own stubble-field ; " The Haggis" reeked on his own table ; 
" The Scotch Drink" of which he sang was the produce of a neighbouring still; " The Twa Dogs,' 
which conversed so wisely and wittily, were, one of them at least, his own collies ; " The Vision" 
is but a picture, and a brilliant one, of his own hopes and fears ; " Tarn Samson" was a friend 
whotn beloved; "Doctor Hornbook" a neighbouring pedant; *' Matthew Plenderson" a social 
captain on half-pay; " The Scotch Bard" who had gone to the West Indies was Burns himself; 
the heroine of " The Lament" was Jean Armour ; and " Tarn O'Shanter" a facetious farmer of 
Kyle, who rode late and loved pleasant company, nay, even " The Deil" himself, whom he had 
the hardihood to address, was a being whose eldrich croon had alarmed the devout matrons of 
Kyle, and had wandered, not unseen by the bard himself, among the lonely glens of the Doon. 
Burns was one of the first to teach the world that high moral poetry resided in the humblest 
subjects: whatever he touched became elevated; his spirit possessed and inspired the commonest 
topics, and endowed them with life and beauty. 

His songs have all the beauties and but few of them the faults of his poems : they flow to the 
music as readily as if both air and words came into the world together. The sentiments are 
from nature, they are rarely strained or forced, and the words dance in their places and echo the 
music in its pastoral sweetness, social glee, or in the tender and the moving. He seems always 
to write with woman's eye upon him : he is gentle, persuasive and impassioned : he appears to 
watch her looks, and pours out his praise or his complaint according to the changeful moods of 
her mind. He looks on her, too, with a sculptor's as well as a poet's eye : to him who works in 
marble, the diamonds, emeralds, pearls, and elaborate ornaments of gold, but load and injure 
the harmony of proportion, the grace of form, and divinity of sentiment of his nymph or his 
gDddess — so with Burns the fashion of a lady's boddice, the lustre of her satins, or the sparkle 
»>f her diamonds, or other finery with which wealth or taste has loaded her, are neglected as idle 
frippery; while her beauty, her form, or her mind, matters which are of nature and not of 
fashion, are remembered and praised. He is none of the millinery bards, who deal in scented 
silks, spider-net laces, rare gems, set in rarer workmanship, and who shower diamonds and 
pearls by the bushel on a lady's locks : he makes bright eyes, flushing cheeks, the magic of 
the tongue, and the "pulses' maddening play" perform all. flis songs are, in general, pas- 
toral pictures : he seldom finishes a portrait of female beautv without enclosing it in a naturaj 
^ame-work of waving woods, running streams, the melody of birds, and the lights of heaven, 



LIFE OF KOBEET BURNS. 



Those who desire to feel Burns in all kis force, must seek some summer glen, when a country girl 
Bearches among his many songs for one which sympathizes with her own heart, and gives it full 
utterance, till wood and vale is filled with the melody. It is remarkable that the most naturally 
elegant and truly impassioned songs in our literature were written by a ploughman in honour of 
the rustic lasses around him. 

His poetry is all life and energy, and bears the impress of a warm heart and a clear under- 
standing : it abounds with passions and opinions — vivid pictures of rural happiness and the rap- 
tors of successful love, all fresh from nature and observation, and not as they are seen through 
thf spectacles of books. The wit of the clouted shoe is there without its coarseness: there is a 
prodigality of humour without licentiousness, a pathos ever natural and manly, a social joy akin 
B»jmetimes to sadness, a melaucholy not unallied to mirth, and a sublime morality which seeks tc 
elevate and soothe. To a love of man he added an affection for the flowers of the valley, the 
fowls of the air, and the beasts of the field : he perceived the tie of social sympathy which united 
animated with unanimated nature, and in many of his finest poems most beautifully he has 
enforced it. His thoughts are original and his style new and unborrowed : all that he has written 
is distinguished by a happy carelessness, a bounding elasticity of spirit, and a singular felicity 
of expression, simple yet inimitable ; he is familiar yet dignified, careless, yet correct, and con- 
jis'^ /et '■'ea-' "nd *"-'Jl. ill '^^is '>"d Ir'^7^h m'-re ^«' eoi'^'^dic'' in +be bnguase of '^nm' li li''*'- -a 
dialect reckoned barbarous by scholars, but which, coming from the lips of inspiration, becomes 
classic and elevated. 

The prose of this great poet has much of the original merit of his verse, but it is seldom so 
natural and so sustained : it abounds with fine outflashings and with a genial warmth and vigour, 
bat it is defaced by fal&e ornament and by a constant anxiety to say fine and forcible things. He 
Beems not to know that simplicity was as rare and as needful a beauty in prose as in verse ; he 
covets the pauses of Sterne and the point and antithesis of Junius, like one who believes that to 
write prose well he must be ever lively, ever pointed, and ever smart. Yet the account which he 
wrote of himself to Dr. Moore is one of the most spirited and natural narratives in the language, 
and composed in a style remote from the strained and groped-for witticisms and put-on sensibili- 
ties of many of his letters: — "Simple," as John Wilson says, "we may well call it; rich in 
tvacj, overflowing in feeling, and dashed off in every other paragraph with the easy boldness of 
A gr«at master." 



PREPACE. 



&o!se simple words : — '-Poems, chiegy in the Scottish Dialect, by Robert Burns;" the following 
motto, marked "Anonymous," but evidently the poet's own composition, was more ambitious:— 

" The simple Bard, unbroke by rules of art, 
He pours the wild effusions of the heart : 
Arid if inspired, 'tis nature's pow'rs inspire — 
Hers all the melting thrill, and hers the kindling fire."] 



The following trifles are not the production of the Poet, who, with all the advantages 
of learned art, and perhaps amid the elegancies and idlenesses of upper life, looks down 
for a rural theme with an eye to Theocritus or Virgil. To the author of this, these, and 
other celebrated names their countrymen, are, at least in their original language, 
a fountain shut up, and a book sealed. Unacquainted with the necessary requisites foi 
commencing poet by rule, he sings the sentiments and manners he felt and saw in him 
self and his rustic compeers around him in his a^d their native language. Though a 
rhymer from his earliest years, at least fro m the earliest impulse of the softer passions, 
it was not till very lately that the applause, perhaps the partiality, of friendship 
awakened his vanity so far as to make him think anything of his worth showing : and 
Done of the following works were composed with a view to the press. To amuse himself 
with the little creations of his own fancy, amid the toil and fatigue of a laborious life ; 
to transcribe the various feelings — ^the loves, the griefs, the hopes, the fears — ^in his own 
breast; to find some kind of counterpoise to the struggles of a world, always an alien 
scene, a task uncouth to the poetical mind — these were his motives for courting tha 
Muses, and in these he found poetry to be its own reward. 

Now that he appears in the public character of an author, he does it with fear and 
Vrembling. So dear is fame to .the rhyming tribe, that even he, an obscure, nameless 
Bard, shrinks aghast at the thought of being branded as — an impertinent blockhead 



PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. 



obtruding his nonsense on the world ; and, because he can make a shift to jingle a few 
loggtrel Scotch rhymes together, looking upon himself as a poet of no small conse- 
(uence, forsooth ! 

It is an observation of that celebrated poet, Shenstone, whose divine elegies do hoacuf 
to our language, our nation, and our species, that " Humility has depressed many a 
genius to a hermit, but never raised one to fame !" If any critic catches at the word 
genius, the author tells him, once for all, that he certainly looks upon himself as pos- 
sessed of some poetic abilities, otherwise his publishing in the manner he has done 
would be a manoeuvre below the worst character, which, he hopes, his worst enemy will 
ever give him. But to the genius of a Ramsay, or the glorious dawning^ of the poor^ 
unfortunate Fergusson, he, with equal unaffected sincerity, declares, that even in hia 
highest pulse of vanity, he has not the most distant pretensions. These two justly- 
admired Scotch poets he has often had in his eye in the following pieces, but rather with 
a view to kindle at their flame, than for servile imitation. 

To his Subscribers, the Author returns his most sincere thanks. Not the mercenary 
bow over a counter, but the heart-throbbing gratitude of the Bard, conscious how much 
he owes to benevolence and friendship for gratifying him, if he deserves it, in that 
dearest wish of every poetic bosom — to be distinguished. He begs his readers, particu 
larly the learned and the polite, who may honour him with a perusal, that they will make 
every allowance for education and circumstances of li^e ; but if, after a fair, candid, and 
impartial criticism, he shall stand convicted of dulnesn and nonsense, let him be dojie 
by as be would in that case do by others — let him be condemned, without mercy, tu 
ecatempt and oblivion. 



THE 

POETICAL WORKS 



ROBERT BURNS. 



WINTER. 



A DIUGB. 



iYhis io om of the earliest of the ix)rt's roeoTded com- 
,»osi'tions : it ■« ^s written before the death of his father, 
md is called by Gilbert Burns, ' a juvenile production.' 
To walk by a river whils flooded, or through a wood on 
a rough winter day, and hear the storm howling among 
the leafless trees, exalted the poet's thoughts. " In such 
a season," he said, ' just after a train of misfortunes, 1 
Winter, a Dirge."] 



The wintrv -west extends his blast, 

Ard hail and rain does blaw ; 
O'- the stormy north sends driving forth 

The blinding sleet and snaw ; 
'Vhile tumbling brown, the burn comes down, 

And roars frae bank to brae ; 
And bird and beast in covert rest, 

And pass the heartless day. 

"The sweeping blast, the sky o'er-^st,"' 

The joyless winter day 
Let others fear, to me more dear 

Than all the pride of May : 
rhe tempest's howl, it soothes my soul. 

My griefs it seems to join ; 
The leafless trees my fancy please, 

Their fate resembles mine ! 

rhou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme 

These woes of mine fulfil. 
Here, firm, I rest, they must be best. 

Because they are Thy will ! 
x'hen all I want (0, do thou grant 

This one request of mine !) 
Since to enjoy Thou dost deny, 

Assist me to resign ! 




DEATH AND DYING WCRD9 



POOR MAILIE, 

THE author's only PET YOWE. 
AN TJNCO MOUENFU' TALE. 

[This tale is partly true; the poet's pet ewe goi 
entang'ed in her tether, and tumbled into a ditch ; tha 
face of ludicrous and awkward sorrow with which thi« 
was related by Hughoc, the herd-boy, amused Burns fo 
much, who was on his way to the plough, that .'■e inrnie 
diately composed the poem, and repeated it to his '.TOthSi 
Gilbert when they met in the evening; the field wje'" 
the poet held the plough, and the ditch into which ;iofii 
Mailie fell, are still pointed out.] 

As Mailie, an' her lambs thegither, 
"Were ae day nibbling on the tether, 
Upon her cloot she coost a hitch, 
An' owre she warsl'd in the ditch : 
There, groaning, dying, she did lie, 
When Hughoc'' he cam doytin by. 
Wi' glowing e'en an' lifted ban's. 
Poor Hughoc like a statue stan's ; 
He saw her days were near-hand ended, 
But, waes my heart ! he could na mer/J it I 
He gaped wide but naething spak — 
At length poor Mailie silence brak. 

" thou, whose lamentable face 
Appears to mourn my woefu' case! 
My dying words attentive hear. 
An' bear them to my master dear. 

"Tell him, if e'er again he keep 
As muckle gear as buy a sheep, 
bid him never tie them mair 
Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair I 



2 A neibor herd-callan. 



(61) 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



Cut ca' tliem out tc park or hill, 
An' let them wander at their will ; 
Bo may his flock increase, and grow 
To scores o' lambs, an' packs of woo' I 

" Tfll him he was a master kin' 
An' ay was gude to me an' mine ; 
An' now my dying charge I gie him. 
My helpicss lambs, I trust them wi' him. 

•> 0, bid him save their harmless lives 
fVae dogs, and tods, an' butchers' knives . 
Btit gie them guid cow-milk their fill. 
Till they be fit to fend themsel ; 
An" tent them duly, e'en an' morn, 
WV teats o' hay, an' ripps o' corn. 

" An' may they never learn the gaeta 
Of ither vile, wanrestfu' pets ! 
To sink thro' slaps, an' reave an' steal 
At stacks o' pease, or stocks o' kail. 
So may they, like their great forbears. 
For monie a year come thro' the sheers ; 
So wives will gie them bits o' bread. 
An' bairns greet for them when they're dead 

" My poor toop-lamb, my son an' heir, 
0, bid him breed him up wi' care ; 
An' if he live to be a beast. 
To pit some havins in his breast ! 
An' warn him what I winna name. 
To stay content wi' yowes at hame 
An' no to rin an' wear his cloots. 
Like ither menseless, graceless brutes. 

"An' niest my yowie, silly thing, 
Gude keep thee frae a tether string ' 
0, may thou ne'er forgather up 
Wi' ony blastit, moorland toop. 
But ay keep mind to moop an' mell 
Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel ! 

" And now, my bairns, wi' my last breath 
I iea'e my blessin wi' you baith : 
An' when you think upo' your mither. 
Mind to be kind to ane anither. 

"Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail 
To tell my master a' my tale ; 
An' bid him burn this cursed tether. 
An' for thy pains, thou'se get my blather." 

This said^ poor Mailie turn'd her head, 
and c'.os'd her een amang the dead. 



nt. 

POOR MACLIE'S ELEGY. 

[Burns, when he calls on the bards of Ayr and Doofl 
to join in the lament for Mailie, intimates that he regaid" 
himself as a poet. logg calls it a very elegant mcrse. 
but says that it resembles too closely " The Ewie and th« 
Crooked Horn,'' to be admired as original : the shep£.«l4 
might have remembered that they both resemble Semc^t. 
" Life and death of the Piper of Kilbarchan."] 

Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, 
Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose 
Our bardie's fate is at a close, 

, Past a' remead; 
The last sad cape-stane of his woes ; 

Poor Mailie's dead. 

It's no the loss o' warl's gear. 
That could sae bitter draw the tear, 
Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear 

The mourning weed 
He's lost a friend and neebor dear. 

In Mailie dead. 

Thro' a' the toun she trotted by him ; 
A lang half-mile she could descry him ; 
Wi' kindly bleat, when she did spy him. 

She ran wi' speed : 
A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh him, 

Than Mailie dead. 

I wat she was a sheep o' sense. 
An' could behave hersel wi' mense : 
I'll say't, she never brak a fence, 

Thro' thievish greed 
Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence 

Sin' Mailie's dead 

Or, if he wonders up the howc. 

Her living image in her yowe 

Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe. 

For bits o' bread ; 
An' down the briny pearls rowe 

For Mailie de**! 

She was nae get o' moorland tips,' 
Wi' tawted ket, an hairy hips ; 



1 VARIATION. 

' She was nae get o' runted rams, 
Wi' woo' like goats an' legs like trama; 
She was the flower o' Fairlie lambs, 

A famous breed ! 
Now Robin, greetin, chews the ha». 
O' Mailie dead ' 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



6d 



Fof her forbears were brought in ships 

Frae yont the Tweed: 

Abonnier fleesh ne'er cross'd the clips 

Than Mailie dead. 

Wae worth the man wha first did shape 
That vile, wanchancie thing — a rape ! 
It mak£ guid fellows girn an' gape, 

Wi' chokin dread ; 
An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape, 

For Mailie dead. 

0, a' ye bards or bonnie Doon ! 

An' wha on Ayr your chanters tune ' 

Come, join the melancholious croon 

0' Robin's reed ! 
Ris heart will never get aboon ! 

His Mailie's dead! 



FIRST EPISTLE TO D^VIE, 

A BBOTHER POET. 

[In tne summer of 1784, Burns, while t work in the 
garden, repeated this Epistle to his brother Gilbert, who 
was much pleased with the performance, which he con- 
lidered equal if not superior to some of Allan Ramsay's 
Epistles, and said if it were printed he had no doubt that 
't would be well received by people of taste.] 



— Januartf, [1784.] 



While winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw. 
And bar the doors wi' driving snaw, 

And hing us owre the ingle, 
I set me down to pass the time, 
And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme, 

In hamely westlin jingle. 
While frosty winds, blaw in the drift, 

Ben to the chimla lug, 
r grudge a wee the great folks' gift, 
That live sae bien an' snug : 
I tent less and want less 
Their roomy fire-side ; 
But hanker and canker 
To see their cursed pride. 



It's hardly in a body's power 
To keep, at times, frae being sour, 
To see bow things are shar'd ; 



How best o' chiels are whiles in want, 
While coofs on countless thousands rant. 

And ken na how to wair't ; 
But- Davie, lad, ne'er fash your heatl, 

Tho' we hae little gear, 
We're fit to win our daily bread, 
As lang's we're hale and fier : 
" Mair spier na, nor fear na,"^ 

Auld age ne'er mind a feg, 
The last o't, the warst o't, 
Is only but to beg. 



To lie in kilns and barns at e'en 

When banes are craz'd, and bluid is thin, 

Is, doubtless, great distress ! 
Yet then content could make us llest; 
Ev'n then, sometimes we'd snatch a taste 

0' truest happiness. 
The honest heart that's free frae a' 

Intended fraud or guile. 
However Fortune kick the ba', 
Has ay some cause to smile : 

And mind still, you'll find still, 

A comfort this nae sma' ; 
Nae mair then, we'll care then, 
Nae farther we can fa' 



What tho', like commoners of air. 
We wander out we know not where. 

But either house or hall ? 
Yet nature's charms, the hills and wooda, 
The sweeping vales, and foaming floods. 

Are free alike to all. 
In days when daisies deck the ground, 

And blackbirds whistle clear. 
With honest joy our hearts will bound 
To see the coming year : 
On braes when we please, then. 

We'll sit and sowth a tune ; 
Syne rhyme till't we'll time till't, 
And sing't when we hae done. 



It's no in titles nor in rank ; 

It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank. 

To purchase peace and rest ; 
It's no in makin muckle mair ; 
It's no in books, it's no in lear, 

To make us truly blest ; 

1 Ramsay 



H THE POETICAL WORKS 


If happiness hae not her seat 


It warms me, it channs me, 


And centre in the breast, 


To mention but her name : 


We may be wise, or rich, or great 


It heats me, it beets me. 


But never can be blest- 


And sets me a' on flame ! 


Nae treasures, nor pleasures, 




Could make us happy lang ; 


IX. 


The heart ay's the part ay 




That makes us right or wrang. 


0, all ye pow'rs who rule above ! 




0, Thoii, whoee very self art love ! 


VI. 


Thou know'st my words sincere ! 




The life-blood streaming thro' my heart, 


Think ye, that sic as you and I, 


Or my more dear immortal part. 


Wha drudgf and drive thro' wet an' dry, 


Is not more fondly dear ! 


Wi' never-ceasing toil ; 


When heart-corroding care and |^ d. 


Think ye, are we less blest than they, 


Deprive my soul of rest. 


W^ha scarcely tent us in their way, 


Her dear idea brings relief 


As hardly worth their while ? 


And solace to my breast. 


Alas ! how aft, in haughty mood 


Thou Being, All-seeing, 


God's creatures they oppress ! 


hear my fervent pray'r f 


Or else, neglecting a' that's guid^ 


Still take her, and make her 


They riot in excess ! 


Thy most peculiar care ! 


Baith careless and fearless 




Of either heaven or hell ! 


X. 


Esteeming and deeming 
It's a' an idle tale ! 


All hail, ye tender feelings do"-" ' 




The smile of love, the friendly ^^ 




The sympathetic glow ! 


VII. 


Long since, this world's thorny waya 


Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce ; 


Had number'd out my weary days. 


Nor make our scanty pleasures less, 


Had it not been for you ! 


By pining at our state ; 


Fate still has blest me with a friend, 


And, even should misfortunes come. 


In every care and ill ; 


I, here wha sit, hae met wi' some. 


And oft a more endearing band, 


An's thankfu' for them yet. 


A tie more tender still. 


They gie the wit of age to youth ; 


It lightens, it brightens 


They let us ken ourseP , 


The tenebrific scene, 


They make us see the naked truth, 


To meet with, and greet with 


The real guid and ill 


My Davie or my Jean ! 


Tho' losses, and crosses. 




Be lessons right severe, 


XI. 


There's wit there, ye'U get there, 
Ye'll find nae other where. 


0, how that name inspires my style 
The words come skelpin, rank ani file. 




Amaist before T ken ! 


VIII. 


The ready measure rins as fine. 


But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts! 


As Phoebus and the famous Nine 


fTo say aught less wad wrang the cartes, 


Were glowrin owre my pen. 


And flatt'ry I detest,) 


My spaviet Pegasus will limp, 


This life has joys for you and I ; 


'Till ance he's fairly het ; 


And joys that riches ne'er could buy : 


And then he'll hilch, and stilt, and jimft 


And joys the very best. 


An' rin an unco fit: 


There's a' the pleasures o' the heart, 


But least then, the beast then 


The lover an' the frien' ; 


Should rue this hasty ride, . 


Ve hae your Meg your dearest part, 


PU light now, and dight now 


And I my darling Jean ! 


His sweaty, wiaen'd hide. 



OF EGBERT BURNS. 



65 



V. 

HECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE, 

A BROTHER POET. 

[David Sillar, to whom these epistles are addressed, 
was at that time master of a country school, and was 
welcome to Burns both as a scholar and a writer of verse. 
This epistle he prefixed to his poems printed at Kilraar- 
aock in the year 1789 : he loved to speak of his early 
eomrade, and supplied Walker with some very valuable 
anecdotes : he died one of the magistrates of Irvine, on 
the 2d of May, 1830, at the age of seventy.] 

AULD NIBOR, 

I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor, 
For your auld-farrent, frien'ly letter ; 
The' I maun say't, I doubt ye flatter, 

Ye speak sae fair. 
For my puir, silly, rhymin clatter 

Some less maun sair. 

riale be your heart, hale be your fiddle ; 
Lang may your clbuck jink and diddle, 
To cheer you thro' the weary widdle 

0' war'ly cares, 
Till bairn's bairns kindly cuddle 

Your auld, gray hairs. 

But Davie, lad, I'm red ye're glaikit; 
I'm tauld the Muse ye hae negleckit ; 
An' gif it's sae, ye sud be licket 

Until ye fyke ; 
8ic hauns as you sud ne'er be faiket. 

Be hain't wha like. 

For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink, 

Rivin' the words to gar them clink ; 

Whyles daez't wi' love, whyles daez't wi' drink, 

Wi' jads or masons ; 
An' whyles, bul ay owre late, I think 

Braw s>;^er 



Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man, 
Commen' me to the Bardie clan ; 
Except it be some idle plan 

0' rhymin' clink. 
The devil-haet, that I sud ban. 

They ever think. 

Nae thought, nae view,.nae scheme o' livin', 
Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin' ; 
But just the pouchie put the nieve in, 

An' while ought's there. 
Then hiltie skiltie, we gae scrievin'. 

An' fash nae mair. 



Leeze mo on rhyme ! it's aye a treasure, 

My chief, amaist my only pleasure. 
At hame, a-fiel', at wark, or leisure. 

The Muse, poor hizzie ' 
Tho' rough an' raplochbe her measure. 

She's seldom lazy. 

Hand to the Muse, my dainty Davie : 
The warl' may play you monie a shavie ; 
But for the Muse she'll never leave ye, 

Tho' e'er so puir, 
Na, even tho' limpin' wi' the spavie 

Frae door to door. 



ADDEESS TO THE DEIL 

" O Prince ! O Chief of many throned Pow'rs, 
That led th' embattled Seraphim to war." 

Milton 

[The beautiful and relenting spirit in which this fine 
poem finishes moved the heart of oiie of the coldcKt ot 
our critics. " It was, I think," says Gilbert Burnii, " Id 
tne wmter of 1784, as we were going with carts for coalf 
to the family fire, and I could yet point out the particulai 
spot, that Robert first repeated to me the 'Address to 
the Deil.' The idea of the address was suggested to 
him by running over in his mind the many ludicroue 
accounts we have of that august personage."] 

THOTT ! whatever title suit thee, 
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, 
Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie, 

Closed under hatches, 
Spairges about the brunstane cootie. 

To scaud poor wretches ' 

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee. 
An' let poor damned bodies be • 
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie. 

E'en to a deil. 
To skelp an" scaud poor dogs like me. 

An' hear us squeel ! 

Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame ; 
Far kend an' noted is thy name ; 
An' tho' yon lowin heugh's thy hame, 

Thou travels far; 
An', faith ! thou's neither lag nor lamo. 

Nor blate nor scam . 

Whyles, ranging like a roaring lion, 
For prey, a' holes an' corners tryin ; 
Whyles, on the strong- winged tempest flyin, 
Tirlin the kirks ; 



• 

66 THE POETICAL WORKS 


Whiles, il the human bosom pryin, 


Then water-kelpies haunt the foord, 


Unseen thou lurks. 


By your direction ; 




An' nighted trav'llers are allur'd 


I've heard my reverend Graunie say, 


To their destruction 


in lanely glens ye like to stray ;. 




Or where auld-rain'd castles, gray, 


An' aft your moss-traversing spunkies 


Ned to the moon, 


Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is, 


!» fright the nightly wand'rer's -way 
Wi' eldricht croon. 


The bleezin, curst^ mischievous monkey* 
Delide his eyes, 




Till in some miry slough he sunk ia^ 


When twilight did my Graunie summon. 


Ne'er mair to rise 


To say her prayers, douce, honest woman ! . 


When masons' mystic word an' grip 


Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin, 
Wi' eerie drone ; 


In storms an' tempests raise you up, 
Some cock or cat your rage maun stop, 


Or, rustlin, thro' the boortries comin. 


Or, strange to tell ! 


Wi' heavy groan. 


The youngest brother ye wad whip 


Ae dreamy, windy, winter night. 


Aff straught to hell ! 


The stars shot down wi' sklentin light, 


Lang syne, in Eden's bonie yard; 


Wi' you, mysel, I gat a fright 


When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd, ' 


Ayont the lough ; 


An' all the soul of love they shar'd. 


Ye, like a rash-buss, stood in sight. 


The raptur'd hour, 


Wi' waving sough. 


Sweet on the fragrant, flow'ry sward, 




In shady bow'r : 


The cudgel in my nieve did shake. 




Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake. 


Then you, ye auld, snick-drawing dog I 


When wi' an eldritch, stoor quaick — quaick — 


Ye came to Paradise incog. 


Amang the springs,' 


An' piay'd on man a cursed brogue. 


Awa ye squatter'd, like a drake. 


(Black be your fa' !) 


On whistling wings. 


An' gied the infant world a shog. 




'Maist ruin'd a'. 


Let warlocks grim, an' wither'd hags, 




Tell how wi' you, on rag weed nags. 


D'ye mind th'at day, when in a bizz, 


They skim the muirs an' dizzy crags, 


Wi' reekit duds, an' reastit gizz. 


Wi' wicked speed; 


Ye did present your smoutio phiz 


And in kirk-yards renew their leagues . 


'Mang better folk. 


Owre howkit dead. • 


An' sklented on the man of Uzz 




Your spitefu' joko ? 


Thence countra wives, wi' toil an' pain, 




May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain : 


An' how ye gat him i' your thrall, 
An' brak him out o' house an' hall. 


For, oh ! the yellow treasure's taen 
By witching skill ; 

An' aawtit, twal-pint hawkie's gaea 
As yell's the bUl 




While scabs an' botches did him gall, 
Wi' bitter claw, 

An' lows'd his ill tongu'i, wicked ocawl, 
Was wajst ava ? 


Fhence mystic knots mak great abuse 


But a' your doings to rehearse. 


On young guidmen, fond, keen, an' crouse ; 


Your wily snares an' fechtin fierce. 


When the best wark-lume i' the house, 


Sin' that day Michael did you pieroe. 


By cantrip wit, 


Down to this time, 


Cb instant made tn worth a louse, 


Wad ding a' Lallan tongue, or Erse, 


Just at the bit. 


In prose or rhyme. 


When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord, 


An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin. 


An' float the jing'Hn iey-bo.^rd, 


A certain Bardie's rantin, drinkin. 




lr-i'£^l-}'2^;^ 



AULD MARE MAGGIE/ 



OB' KOBEET BURNS. 67 


Borne lucklesE hour will send him linkin 


He gied me thee, o' tocher clear, 


To your black pit ; 


An' fifty mark ; 


But, faith! he'll turn a corner jinkin, 


The' it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear, 


An' cheat you yet. 


An' thou was stark 


But fare ye weel, auld Nickie-hen I 


When first I gaed to woo my Jenny, 


wad ye tak a thought an' men' ! 


Ye then was trottin wi' your minnie : 


Ye aiblins might- dinna ken — 


Tho' ye was trickle, slee, an' funny. 


Still hae a stake — 


Ye ne'er was donsie 


I'm wae to think upo' yon den, 


But hamely, tawie, quiet an' cannie, 


Ev'n for your sake ! 


An' unco sonsie. 




That day ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride, 
When ye bure hame my bonnie bride : 






An' sweet an' gracefu' she did ride, 


VII. 


Wi' maiden air ! 


THE AULD FARMER'S 


Kyle-Stewart I could bragged wide, 




For sic a pair. 


\EW-TEAR MORNING SALUTATION TO HIS 




AULD MARE MAGGIE, 


Tho' now ye dow but hoyte and hoble, 


• 


An' wintle like a saumont-coble, 


ON GIVING HER THE ACCTTSTOMED RIPP OF CORN TO 




HANSEL IN THE NEW YEAR. 


That day, ye was a j inker noble. 

For heels an' win' 1 
An' ran them till they a' did wauble. 


["Whenever Burns has occasion," says Hogg, "to 
address or mention any subordinate being, however 


mean, even a mouse or a flower, then there is a gentle 


Far, far, behin'l 


pathos in it that awakens the fine,st feelings of the heart." 




The Auld Farmer of Kyle has the spirit of a knight- 


When thou an' I were young an' skeigh, 


errant, and loves his mare according to the rules of 


An' stable-meals at fairs were dreigh. 


chivalry; and well he might: she carried him safely 
home from markets, triumphantly from wedding-brooses ; 


How thou wad prance, an' snore, an' skreigh, 


she ploughed the stiffest land ; faced the steepest brae. 


An' tak the road ! 


and, moreover, bore home his bonnie bride with a con- 


Town's bodies ran, an' stood abeigh. 


Bciousness of the loveliness of the load.] 


An' ca't thee mad. 


A GuiD New-year I wish thee, Maggie ! 


When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow, 


Hae, there's a rip to thy auld baggie : 


We took the road ay like a swallow : 


Tho' thou's howe-backit, now, an' knaggie, 


At Brooses thou had ne'er a fellow, 


I've seen the day 


For pith an' speed ; 


Thou could hae gaen like onie staggie 


But every tail thou pay't them hollow, 


Out-owre the lay. 


Where'er thou gaed. 


Tho' now thou's dowie, stiflF, an' crazy, 


The sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle, 


An' thy auld hide as white's a daisy, 


Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle ; 


I've seen thee dappl't, sleek, and glaizie, 


But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettlft 


A bonny gray : 


An' gar't them whaizle; 


He should been tight that daur't to raize thee, 


Nae whip nor spur, but just a whattle 


Ance in a day. 


0' saugh or hazle. 


Thou ance was i' the foremost rank, 


Thou was a noble fittie-lan', 


A. filly, buirdly, steeve, an' swank. 


As e'er in tug or tow was drawn : 


An set weel down a shapely shank, 


Aft thee an' I, in aught hours gaun, 


As e'er tread yird ; 


In guid March-weather, 


\.t ' could hae flown out-owre a stank, 


Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han' , 


Like ony bird. 


For days thegither. 


tt's now some nine-an'-iwenty year, 


Thou never braindg't, an' fetch't, an' fliskii. 


•^in' thou was my guid-father's Meere; 


But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit. 



68 



THE POETICAL WOKKS 



4n' spread abreed thy weel-fiU'd brisket, 
Wi' pith an' pow'r, 

'Till spiritty knowes wad rair't and risket, 
An' slypet owre. 

When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep, 
An' threaten'd labour back to keep, 
1 gied thy cog a wee-bit heap 

Aboon the timmer ; 
I ken'd my Maggie wad na sleep 

For that, or simmer. 

In cart or car thou never reestit ; 

The steyest brae thou wad hae fac't it ; 

Thou never lap, an' sten't, an' breastit, 

Then stood to blaw ; 
But yrst thy step a wee thing hastit, 

Thou snoov't awa. 

My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a' ; 
Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw ; 
Forbye sax mae, I've sell't awa. 

That thou hast nurst : 
They drew me thretteen pund an' twa, 

The vera warst. 

Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought, 
An, wi' the weary warll fought ! 
An' monie an anxious day, I thought 

We wad be beat ! 
Yet here to crazy age we're brought, 

Wi' something yet. 

And think na, my auld, trusty servan', 
That now perhaps thou's less deservin, 
An' thy auld days may end in starvin, 

For my last fow, 
A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane 

Laid by for you. 

We've worn to crazy years thegither ; 
We'll toyte about wi' ane anither ; 
Wi' tentie care I'll flit thy tether. 

To some hain'd rig, 
^are ye may nobly rax your leather, 

Wi' sma' fatigue. 



TO A HAGGIS. 

[The vehement nationality of this poem is but a smal 
part of its merit. The haggis of the north is the mincet 
pie of the south ; both are characteristic of the people 
the ingredients which corrtpose ti" former are all of 
Scottish growth, including the ba ,uich contains them 
the ingredients of the latter a gathered chiefly ffn 
the four quarters of the jlobe : the haggis is the trinmpi 
of poverty, the minced pie the triumph of wealth.] 

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, 
Great chieftain o' the pudding-race ! 
Aboon them a' ye tak your place, 

Painch, tripe, or thairm 
Weel are ye wordy o' a grace 

As lang's my arm. 

The groaning trencher there ye fill. 
Your hurdles like a distant hill, 
Your pin wad help to mend a mill 

In time o' need, 
While thro' your pores the dews distil 

Like amber bead. 

His knife see rustic-labour dight, 
An' cut you up wi' ready slight, 
Trenching your gushing entrails bright 

Like onie ditch; 
And then, what a glorious sight, 

Warm-reekin, rich ! 

Then horn for horn they stretch an' strive, 
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive, 
'Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belj've 

Are bent like drums ; 
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive, 

Bethankit hums. 

Is there that o'er his French ragout, 
Or olio that wad staw a sow. 
Or fricassee wad mak her spew 

Wi' perfect sconner, 
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view 

On sic a dinner ? 

Poor devil ! see him owre his trash, 

As feckless as a wither' d rash, 

His spindle shank a guid whip-lash, 

His nieve a nit ; 
Tbro' Moody flood or field to dash, 

how unfit ! 

But mark the rustic, haggis-fed. 

The trembling earth regounds Ms tread. 



OF EGBERT BURNS. 



9B 



Clap in his walie nieve a blade, 

He'll mak it -wliissle ; 
An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned, 
Like taps o' thrissle. 

Ye pow'rs wha mak mankind your care, 
And dish them out their bill o' fare, 
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware 

That jaups in luggi<»s; 
But, if ye wish her gratefu' pray'r, 

Gie her a Ha^is ' 



A PRAYEil, 



TIHDEB THE PKESSURB 0/ V^O'-.GNT ANGUISH. 

[" There wac- ,,eii!>a it my life," says BurnS; 

" that my sp . vvas broke Dv /epeated losses and dis- 
asters, wnich threatened ar 1 indeed effected the ruin of 
my fortune. My bod-', *oo, was attacked by tne most 
ireadful distemper, a hypochondria or confirmed melan- 
tholy. In this wtstched state, -the recollection of which 
makes me yet -^ftuader, I hung my harp on the willow- 
trees, exc«pt in same lucid intervals, in one of which I 
soiaposed the following."] 

Thott Great Being ! what Thou art 

Surpasses me to know: 
Yet sure I am, that known to Thee 

Are all Thy works below. 

Thy creature here before Thee stands. 

All wretched and distrest ; 
Yet sure those ills that wring my soul 

Obey Thy high behest. 

Sure Thou, Almighty, canst not act 

From cruelty or wrath ! 
0, free*my weary eyes from tears. 

Or close them fast in death ! 

But if I must afflicted be, 

To suit some wise design ; 
Then, man my soul with firm r« solves 

Ta bear and not repine ! 



X. 

A PRAYER 

IN THE PEOSPECT OF DEATH. 

[I have heard the third verse of this very mo7Ui| 
Prayer quoted by scrupulous men as a proof that tile 
poet imputed his errors to the Being who had endowed 
him with wild and unruly passions. The meaning il 
very different : Burns feil the torrent-strength of pagg.os 
overpowering his resolutiiin, and trusted that God woii.<i 
be merciful to the errors of one on whom he had bestow«4 
such o'ermastering gifts.] 

Thou unknown. Almighty Cause 

Of all my hope and fear ? 
In whose dread presence, ere an hour 

Perhaps I must appear ! 

If I have wander'd in those paths 

Of life I ought to shun ; 
As something, loudly, in my breast. 

Remonstrates I have done ; 

Thou know'st that Thou hast formed me. 
With passions wild and strong ; 

And list'ning to their witching voice 
Has often led me wrong. 

Where human weakness has come short, 

Or frailty stept aside. 
Do Thou, All-Good ! for such thou art, 

In shades of darkness hide. 

Where with intention I have err'd, 

No other plea I have, 
But, Thou art good ; and goodness still 

Delighteth to forgive. 



XI. 

STANZAS 

ON THE SAME OCCASION. 

[These verses the poet, in his common- p.ace b®«>k, 
calls " Misgivings in the Hour of Despondency and Pro- 
spect of Death." He elsewhere says th«y were com- 
posed when fainting-fits and other alarming symptom* 
of a pleurisy, or some other dangerous diacrder, tssX 3«1 
nature on the alarm.] 

Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene ? 

Have I so found it full of pleasing charms ! 
Some drops of joy with draughts of ill between 

Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewini 
storms : 



TO 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



Is it departing pangs my soul alarms ? 

Or Death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode ? 
For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms; 

I tremble to approach an angry God, 
And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod. 

Fain would I say, " Forgiv* my foul offence !" 

Fain promise neve^j more to disobey ; 
But, 'should my Author health again dispense, 

Again I might desert fair virtue's way : 
Again in folly's path might go astray ; 

Again exalt the brute and sink the man ; 
Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray. 

Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan ? 
Who sin so oft have mourn'd, yet to temptation 
ran? 

Thou, great Governor of all below ! 

If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee, 
Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow, 

Or still the tumult of the raging sea : 
• With that controlling pow'r assist ev'n me 

Those headlong furious passions to confine ; 
For all unfit I feel my pow'rs to be, 

To rule their torrent in th' allowed line ; 
i), aid me 'ivith Thy help. Omnipotence Divine ! 



A WINTER NIGHT. 

" Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are 
That bide the pelting of the pitiless storm ! 
Hjw shall your houseless heads and unfed sides, 
Your looped and widow'd raggedness defend you. 
From seasons such as these ?^' 

Shakspeare. 

[" This poem," says my friend Thomas Carlyle, " is 
(vorth several homilies on mercy, for it is the voice of 
Mercy herself. Burns, indeed, lives in sympathy: his 
loul rushes forth into all the realngs of being : nothing 
that has existence can be indifferent to him."] 

When biting Boreas, foil and doure. 
Sharp shivers thro' the leafless bow'r ; 
When Phoebus gies a short-liv'd glow'r 

Far south the lift, 
Dim-darkening through the flaky show'r. 

Or whirling drift: 

Ae night the storm the steeples rocked. 
Poor labour sweet in sleep was locked, 
While burns, wi' snawy wveeths up-choked, 
Wild-eddying swirls 



Or through the mining outlet booked, 
* Down headlong horl. 

Listening, the doors an' winnocks rattle. 
I thought me on the ourie cattle, 
Or siUy sheep, wha bide this brattle 

0' winter war, 
And through the drift, deep-lairing tprattle 

Beneath a scar, 

Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing. 
That, in the merry months o' spring. 
Delighted me to hear thee sing. 

What comes o' thee ? 
Whare wilt thou cower thy chittering wing. 

An' close thy e'e ? 

Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd. 
Lone from your savage homes exiled. 
The blood-stained roost, and sheep-cote spoil©*' 

My heart forgets, 
While pitiless fht -— ->'^=+ -wild 

^^^. . ' ^"ats. 

Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign. 
Dark muffled, viewed the dreary plain ; 
Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train, 

Rose in my soul, 
When on my ear this plaintive strain 

Slow, solemn, stole : — 

" Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust ! 
And freeze, thou bitter-bit}ng frost ; 
Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows ! 
Not all your rage, as now united, shows 
More hard unkindness, unrelenting. 
Vengeful malice unrepenting, ' 

Than heaven-illumined man on brother man 
bestows ; 
See stern oppression's iron grip. 
Or mad ambition's gory hand, 
Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip. 
Woe, want, and murder o'er a Isyid ! 
Even in the peaceful rural vale, 
Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale, 
How pamper'd luxury, flattery by her side, 
The parasite empoisoning her ear, 
With all the servile wretches in the rear. 
Looks o'er proud property, extended wide: 
And eyes the simple rustic hind. 

Whose toil upholds the glittering show, 
A creature of another kind, 
Some coarser substance, unreftn'd. 
Placed for her lordly use thus far, thus vila, 
below. 



Where, where is love's fond, tender throe, 
With lordly honour's lofty brow, 
The powers you proudly own ? 
Is there, beneath love's noble name, 
Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim, 

To bless himself alone ! 
Mark maiden innocence a prey ~ 

Tc love-pretending snares. 
This boasted honour turns away, 
Shunning soft pity's rising sway, 
JS.egardless of the tears and unavauine prayers 1 
Perhaps this hour, in misery's squa id nest, 
She strains your infant to her joyless breast, 
Ajid with a mother's fears shrinks at the rock- 
ing blast ! 
Oh ye ! who, sunk in beds of down, 
Feel not a want but what yourselves create, 
Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate, 
Whom friends and fortune quite disown ! 
Ill satisfied keen nature's clamorous call, 
Stretched on his straw he lays himself to 
sleep, 
>Vhile through the ragged rooi and chinky 
wall. 
Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap ! 
Think on the dungeon's grim cojifine, 
Where guilt, and poor misfortune pine ! 
Gruiit, erring man, relenting view ! 
But shall thy legal rage pursue 
The wretch, already crushed low 
By cruel fortune's undeserved blow ? 
AfOiiction's sons are brothers in distress, 
A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss !" 

I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer 

Shook off the pouthery snaw. 
And hailed the morning with a cheer — 

A cottage-rousing craw ! 

But deep this truth impressed my mind — 

Through all his works abroad, 
The heart benevolent and kind 

The most resembles God. 



xin. 

REMORSE. 

A , FKAGMENT. 



I 1 entirely agree," says Burns, " with the author of 
idM Theory of Moral Sentiments, that Remorse is the 
<tto«t painful sentiment that can- embitter the human 
»0»om ; an ordinary pitch of fortitude may bear up admi- 
*hlv well, under those calamities, in the procurement 



of which we ourselves have had no ^land : but when ouj 
follies or crimes nave made us wretched, to bear all 
with manly firmness . ;)nd at the same i.ii.' have apropei 
penitential sense o( our misconduct, ^ r o'lorious effoi( 
of self-command."] 

Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace. 
That press the soul, or wring the mind with 

anguish, 
Beyond comparison tiie worst are those 
That to our folly or oui 5::iilt we owe. 
In every other circumstance the mind 
Has this to say, ' It was no deed of mine ;' 
But when to all the evil of misfortune 
This sling is added — ' Blame thy foolish self !' 
Or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse ; 
The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt,— 
Of guilt, perhaps, where we've involved others ; 
The young, the innocent, who fondly lov a us. 
Nay, more, that very love their cause of ruin! 
burning aeii ' m all thy store of torments, 
There's not a keener lash! 
Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart 
Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime, 
Can reason down its agonizing throbs ; 
And, after proper purpose of amendment. 
Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace ♦ 
0, happy ! happy ! enviable man ! 
glorious magnanimity of soul ! 



XIV. 
THE JOLLY BEGGARS. 

A CANTATA. 

[This inimitable poem, unknowTi to Currie and unheard- 
of while the poet lived, was first given to the world, with 
other characteristic pieces, by Mr. Stewart of Glasgow, 
in the year 1801. Some have surmised that it is not the 
work of Burns ; but the parentage is certain : the origina' 
^Sianuscript at the time of its composition, in 1785, was 
put into the hands of Mr. Richmond of Mauehline, and 
afterwards given by Burns himself to Mr, ^^''oodburUl 
factor of the laird of Craigengillan ; the song of " For a' 
that, and a' that" was inserted by the poet, with hiB 
name, in the Musical Museum of February, 1V9C. Cro- 
mek admired, yet did not, from overruling advice print 
it in the Reliques, for which he was sharply censured by 
Sir Walter Scott, in the Quarterlf Review. The scene 
of the poem is in Mauehline, whei-s Porfsie Nansie had 
her change-house. Only one copy .n the handwriting 
of Burns is supposed to exist ; and of it a very Lccurat* 
fac-simile has been given.] 

KECITATIVO. 

When lyart leaves bestrow the yird, 

Or wavering like the bauckie-bird, 

Bedim cauld Boreas' blast ; 



72 THE POETICAL WORKS 


When hailstanes drive wi' bitter skyte 


Yet let my country need me, 


And infant frosts begin to bite, 


With Elliot to head me, 


In hoary cranreuch drest ; 


I'd clatter on my stumps 


Ae night at e'en a merry core 


At the sound of a drum. 


0' randie, gangrel bodies, 


Lai de daudle, &0. 


In Poosie-Nansie's held the splore. 




To drink their orra duddies : 


And now tho' I must beg. 


Wi' quaffing and laughing, 


With a wooden arm and leg, 


They ranted an' they sang; 


And many a tatter' d rag 


Wi' jumping and thumping. 


Hanging over my bum, 


The vera girdle rang. 


I'm as happy with my wallet, 




My ',ottle and my callet, 


First, neist the fire, in auld red rags. 


As when I used in scarlet 


Ane sat, weel brac'd wi' mealy bags. 


To follow a drum. 


And knapsack a' in order ; 


Lai de daudle, &o. 


His doxy lay vpithin his arm. 




Wi' usquebae an' blankets warm — 


What tho' with hoary locks 


She blinket on her sodger : 


I must stand the winter shocks, 


An' ay he gies the tozie drab 


Beneath the woods and rocks 


The tither skelpin' kiss, 


Oftentimes for a home^ 


While she held up her greedy gab 


When the tother bag I sell, 


Just like an aumous dish. 


And the tother bottle tell. 


Ilk smack still, did crack still. 


I could meet a troop of hell. 


Just like a cadger's whip. 


At the sound of a drum. 


Then staggering and swaggering 


Lai de daudle, &&. 


He roar'd this ditty up — 






RECITATrVO. 


AIK. 


He ended ; and kebars sheuk, 


Tune — "Soldiers' Joy." 


Aboon the chorus roar ; 




While frighted rattons backward lenk, 


I AM a son of Mars, 


And seek the benmost bore ; 


Who have been in many wars. 


A fairy fiddler frae the neuk, 


And show my cuts and scars 


He skirl' d out — encore! 


Wherever I come ; 


But up arose the martial Chuck, 


This here was for a wench. 


And laid the loud uproar. 


And that other in a trench. 




When welcoming the French 




At the sound of the drum. 


AIE. 


Lai de daudle, &c. 


Tune — "Soldier laddie." 


My 'prenticeship I past 


I ONCE was a maid tho' I cannot tell when, 


Where my leader breath' d his last, 


And still my delight is in proper young men ; 


When the bloody die was cast 


Some one of a troop of dragoons was my daddic 


On the heights of Abram ; 


No wonder I'm fond of a sodger laddie. 


I served out my trade 


Sing, Lai de dal, &c. 


When the gallant game was play'd, 




\jid the Moro low was laid 


The first of my loves was a swaggering blade. 


At the sound of the drum. 


To rattle the thundering drum was his trade ; 


Lai de daudle, &c. 


His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy, 




Transported I was with my sodger laddie. 


I lastly was with Curtis, 


Sing, Lai de dal, &c. 


Amon^ the floating batt'ries. 




Aad there I left for witness 


But the godly old chaplain left him in the hirch, 


An arm and a limb ; 


The sword I forsook for the sake of the church ; 



OF ROBEKT BURNS. 



n 



Hs ventur'd the soul, and I risk'd the body, 
Tvj^s then I prov'd false to my sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lai de dal, &c. 

Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot, 
The regiment at large for a husband I got ; 
From the gilded spontoon to the fife I was ready, 
I asked no more but a sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lai de dal, &c. 

But the peace it reduc'd me to beg in despair. 
Till I met my old boy in a Cunningham fair ; 
His rags regimental they flutter'd so gaudy, 
M^T heart is rejoic'd at my sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lai de dal, &c. 

And now I have liv'd — I know not how long, 

And still I can join in a cup or a song ; 

But whilst with both hands I can hold the glass 

steady, . 
Here's to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lai de dal, &c. 

EECITATIVO. 

Poor Merry Andrew in the neuk. 

Sat guzzling wi' a tinkler hizzie ; 
They mind't na wha the chorus teuk. 

Between themselves they were sae busy : 
At length wi' drink and courting dizzy 

He stoitered up an' made a face ; 
Then turn'd, an' laid a smack on Grizj;ie, 

Syne tun'd his pipes wi' grave grimace. 



Tune — '■'■Auld Sir Symon." 

Sir Wisdom's a fool when he's fou. 
Sir Knave is a fool in a session; 

He's there but a 'prentice I trow, . 
But I am a fool by profession. 

My grannie she bought me a beuk, 
And I held awa to the school ; 

I fear I my talent misteuk, 
But what will ye hae of a fool ? 

For drink I would venture my neck, 
A hizzie' s the half o' my craft. 

But what could ye other expect. 
Of ano that's avowedly daft? 

1 ance was ty'd up like a stirk. 
For civilly swearing and quaffing ; 

T ance was abused in the kirk. 
For touzling a lass i' my daffin. 



Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport, 
Let naebody name wi' a jeer ; 

There's ev'n I'm tauld i' the court 
A tumbler ca'd the premier. 

Observ'd ye, yon reverend lad 
Maks faces to tickle the mob ; 

He rails at our mountebank squad 
Its rivalship just i' the job. 

And now my conclusion I'll tell. 
For faith I'm confoundedly dry ; 

The chiel that's a fool for himsel', 
Gude L — d ! he's far dafter than I 

RECITATIVO 

Then neist outspak a raucle carlin, 
Wha kent fu' weel to cleek the sterling, 
For monie a pursie she had hooked, 
And had in mony a well been ducked. 
Her dove had been a Highland laddie, 
But weary fa' the waefu' woodie ! 
Wi' sighs and sobs she thus began 
To wail her braw John Highlandman. 



Tune — " an ye were dead, guidmai 

A Highland lad my love was born. 
The Lalland laws he held in scorn ; 
But he still was faithfu' to his clan, 
My gallant braw John Highlandman. 



Sing, hey my braw John Highlandman I 
Sing, ho my braw John Highlandman ! 
There's not a lad in a' the Ian' 
Was match for my John Highlandman. 

With his philibeg an' tartan plaid, 
An' gude claymore down by his side, 
The ladies' hearts he did trepan, 
My gallant braw John Highlaadman 
Sing, hey, &c. 

We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey, 
An' liv'd like lords and ladies gay ; 
For a Lalland face he feared none, 
My gallant braw John Highlandman. 

Sing, hey, &c. — 

They banished him beyond the sea. 
But ere the bud was on the tree, 
Adown my cheeks the pearls ran. 
Embracing my John Highlandman. 
Sing, hey, &c. 



74 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



But, och ! they catch'd him at the last, 
And bound him in a dungeon fast ; 
My curse upon them every one, 
They've hang'd my braw John Highlandman. 
Sing, hey, &c. 

Ajid now a widow, I must mourn, 
Ihe pleasures that will ne'er return : 
No comfort but a hearty can, 
W ben I think on John Highlandman. 
Sing, hey, &c. 

RECITATIVO. 

A pigmy scraper, wi' his fiddle, 

Wha us'd at trysts and fairs to driddle. 

Her strappan limb and gausy middle. 

He reach'd na higher, 
Hid hol'd his heartie like a riddle. 

An' blawn't on fire. 

Wi' hand on hainch, an' upward e'e, 
He croon'd his gamut, one, two, tliree. 
Then in an Arioso key, 

The wee Apollo 
Set off wi' Alleg:i'etto glee 

His giga solo. 



Tune — '^Whistle o'er the lave d'L" 

Let me ryke up to dight that tear, 
And go wi' me and be my dear. 
And then your every care and fear 
May whistle owre the lave o't. 

CHOEUS. 

I am a fiddler to my trade, 
An' a' the tunes that e'er I play'd, 
The sweetest still to wife or maid, 
Was whistle owre the lave o't. 

At kirns and weddings we'se be there, 
And ! sae nicely's we will fare ; 
We'll house about till Daddie Care 
Siflgs whistle owre the lave o-'t. 
I am, &c. 

6ae merrily thfe banes we'll byke, 

And sun oursells about the dyke, 

And at our leisure, when ye like, 

We'll whistle owre the lave o't. 

I am, &c. 

But bless me wi' your heav'n o' charms, 
And while I kittle hair on thairms, 



Hunger, cauld, and a' sic harms, 
May whistle owre the lave o't. 
I am, &c. 

RECITATIVO. 

Her charms had struck a sturdy cairi. 

As weel as poor gut-scraper ; 
He taks the fiddler by the beard, 

And draws a roosty rapier — 
He swoor by a' was swearing worth, 

To speet him like a pliver. 
Unless he wad from that time forth 

Eelinquish her for ever. 

Wi' ghastly e'e, poor tweedle-dee 

Upon his hunkers bended, 
And pray'd for grace wi' ruefu' face, 

And sae the quarrel ended. 
But tho' his little heart did grieve 

When round the tinkler prest her, 
He feign'd to snirtle in his sleeve, 

When thus the caird address' d her: 



Tune — " Clout the Caudron." 

My bonny lass, I work in brass, 

A tinkler is my station : 
I've travell'd round all Christian ground 

In this my occupation : 
I've taen the gold, an' been enrolled 

In many a noble squadron : 
But vain they search'd, when off I march'd 

To go and clout the caudron. 

I've taen the gold, &c. 

Despise that shrimp, that wither'd imp, 

Wi' a' his noise and caprin, 
And tak a share wi' those that bear 

The budget and the apron. 
And by that stoup, my faith and houp, 

An' by that dear Ealbaigie,' 
If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant, 

May I ne'er weet my craigie. 

An' by that stoup, &o, 

RECITATIVO. 

The caird prevail' d — th' unblushing fair 

In his embraces sunk. 
Partly wi' love o'ercome sae sair. 

An' partly she was drunk. 



1 A pecuhar sort of whiikey. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. ^6 


Sir Violino, with an air 


Their tricks and craft have put me daft, 


That show'd a man of spunk, 


They've ta'en me in, and a' that ; 


Wish'd unison between the pair, 


But clear your decks, and here's the sex ' 


An' made the bottle clunk 


I Uke the jads for a' that. 


To their health that night 


CH0KU8. 


But urchif. Cupid shot a shaft, 
That play'd a dame a shavie, 

A sailor rak'd her fore and aft, 
Behint the chicken cavie. 

Her lord, a wight o' Homer's craft, 


For a' that, an' a' that. 

An' twice as muckle's a' that ; 
My dearest bluid, to do them guid, 

They're welcome till't for a' that. 


Tho' limping wi' the spavie, 
fie hirpl'd up, and lap like daft, 


EBCITATIVO. 


And shor'd them Dainty Davie 


So sung the bard — and Nansie's wa s 


boot that night. 


Shook with a thunder of applause, 


He was a care-defying bl,ade 
As ever Bacchus listed. 


Re-echo'd from each mouth : 
They toom'd their pocks, an' pawn'd tieii 
duds. 


Tho' Fortune sair upon him laid, 
His heart she ever miss'd it. 

He had nae wish but — to be glad. 
Nor want but — when he thirsted ; 


They scarcely left to co'er their fuds, 
To quench their lowan drouth. 

Then owre again, the jovial thrang, 
The poet did request. 

To loose his pack an' wale a sang, 
A ballad o' the best ; 
He rising, rejoicing. 


He hated nought but — to be sad, 
And thus the Muse suggested 

His sang that night. 


AIK. 


Between his twa Deborahs 


Tune — '^ For a' that, an' a' thai." 
I am a bard of no regard 


Looks round him, an' found them 
Impatient for the chorus. 


Wi' gentle folks, an' a' that : 


AIK. 


But Homer-like, the glowran byke, 


Frae town to town I draw that. 


Tune—" Jolly Mortals, fill your Glasses" 


CHORUS, 


See ! the smoking bowl before us, 


For a' that, an' a' that. 
An' twice as muckle's a' that ; 


Mark our jovial ragged ring ! 
Round and round take up the chorus, 


I've lost but ane, I've twa behin', 
I've wife eneugh for a' that. 


And in raptures let us sing. 


I nev-er drank the Muses' stank, 
Castalia's burn, an' a' that ; 


CHORUS. 

A fig for those by law protected ! 


But there it streams, and richly reams, 
My Helicon I ca' that. 

For a' that, &c. 


Liberty's a glorious feast ! 
Courts for cowards were erecteu. 
Churches built to please the pnesi. 


Graat love I bear to a' the fair, 


What is title ? what is treasure ? 


Their humble slave, an' a' that; 


What is reputatioi- 


But lordly will, I hold it still 


If we lead a life ot pieasuit, 


A mortal sin to thraw that. 


'Tis no matter how or where ! 


For a' that, &c. 


A fig, &c. 


tn raptxires sweet, this hour we meet, 


With the ready trick and fable, 


Wi' mutual love, an a' that : 


Round we wander all the day ; 


But fcr how lang the flie may stang, 


And at night, in barn or stable, 


Let inclination law that. 


Hug our doxies on the hay. 


For a' that, &c. 


A fig, &c. 



re THE POETICAL WORKS 


Does the train-attended carriage 


The Clachan yill had made me canty, 


Through the country lighter rove ? 


I was na fou, but just had plenty ; 


Does the sober bed of marriage 


I stacher'd whyles, but yet took tent ay 


Witness brighter scenes of love ? 


To free the ditches ; 


A fig, &c. 


An' hillocks, stanes, and bushes, kenn'd ay 




Frae ghaists an' witches 


Life is all a variorum, 




We regard not how it goes ; 


The rising moon began to glow'r 


Let them cant about decorum 


The distant Cumnock hills out-owie: 


Who have characters to lose. 


To count her horns with a' my pow'r, 


A fig, &c. 


I set mysel ; 




But whether she had three or four, 


Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets ! 


I could na tell. 


Here's to all the wandering train ! 




Here's our ragged brats and callets ! 


I was come round about the hill, 


One and all cry out — Amen ! 


And todlin down on Willie's mill, 




Setting my staff with a' my skill. 


A fig for those by law protected ! 


To keep me sicker, 


Liberty's a glorious feast ! 


Tho' leeward whyles, against my will, 


Courts for cowards were erected, 


I took a bicker 


Churches built to please the priest. 


I there wi' something did forgather, 




That put me in an eerie swither ; 

An awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther, 


. 


XV. 


Clear-dangling, hang ; 




A three-taed leister on the ither 


DEATH AND DR. HORNBOOK. 






Lay, large an' lang. 


A TRUE STOKY. 






Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa, 


[John Wilson, raised to the unwelcome elevation of 


The queerest shape that e'er I saw, 


aero to this poem, was, at the time of its composition, 
schoolmaster in Tarbolton: he was, it is said, a fair 


For fient a wame it had ava : 


scholar, and a very worthy man, but vain of his know- 


And then, its shanks, 


ledge in medicine— so vain, that he advertised his merits. 


They were as thin, as sharp an' sma' 


and offered advice gratis. It w^as his misfortune to 


As cheeks o' branks. 


encounter Burns at a mason meeting, vi^ho, provoked by a 




long and pedantic speech, from the Dominie, exclaimed, 


"Guid-een," quo' I; " Friend, hae ye bee| 


the future lampoon dawning upon him, "Sit down, Dr. 


mawin, 


Hornbook." On his way home, the poet seated himself on 


the ledge of a bridge, composed the poem, and, overcome 


When ither folk are busy sawin ?" 


with poesie and drink, fell asleep, and did not awaken 


It seem'd to mak a kind o' stan'. 


til. the Eun was shining over Galston Moors. Wilson 


But naething spak ; 
At length, says I, "Friend, where ye gaun. 


went afterwards to Glasgow, embarked in mercantile 
ind matrimonial speculations, and prospered, and is still 


irospering.] 


Will ye go back?" 


Some books are lies frae end to end. 


It spak right howe, — " My name is Death, 


And some great lies were never penn'd : 


But be na fley'd." — Quoth I, " Guil faith, 


Et'e ministers, they ha'e been kenn'd, 


Ye're may be come to stap my breath ; 


■n holy rapture, 


But tent me, billie; 


A *<)Mmg wnid, at times, to vend, 


I red ye weel, take care o' skaith. 


And nail't wi' Scripture. 


See, there's a gully !" 


But this that I am gaun to tell, 


"Guidman," quo' he, "put up your whittle, 


Which lately on a night befel. 


I'm no design'd to try its mettle ; 


Is just as true's the Deil's in h-11 


But if I did, I wad be kittle 


Or Dublin-city ; 


To be mislear'd, 


That e'er he nearer comes oursel 


I wad nae mind it, no that spittle 


'S a muckle pity. 


Out-owre mv beard." 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 11 


"Weel, weel!" says I, "a bargain be't; 


"Ev'n them he canna get attended, 


Come, gies your hand, an' sae we're gree't ; 


Although their face he ne'er had kend it, 


We'll ease our shanks an' tak a seat. 


Just sh — in a kail-blade, and send it. 


Come, gies your news 1 


As soon's he smells't, 


This while ye hae been mony a gate 


Baith their disease, and what will mend it, 


At mony a house. 


At once he tells't. 


•*Ay, ay!" qtso' he, an' shook his head, 


" And then a' doctor's saws and whittl«(a, 


"It's e'en a lang, lang time indeed 


Of a' dimensions, shapes, an' mettles, 


Sin' I began to nick the thread. 


A' kinds o' boxes, mugs, an' bottles, 


An' choke the breath : 


He's sure to hae 5 


Folk maun do something for their bread. 


Their Latin names as fast he rattles 


An' sae maun Death. 


As A B C. 


" Sax thousand years are near hand fled 


" Calces 0' fossils, earths, and trees ; 


Bin' I was to the butehing bred. 


True sal-marinum 0' the seas ; 


An' mony a scheme in vain's been laid, 


The farina of beans an'' '^ease, 


To stap or scar me ; 


jtie has't ia plenty , 


Till ane Hornbook's ta'en up the trade, 


Aqua-fortis, what you please, 


An' faith, he'll waur me. 


He^an content ye 


" Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the Clachan, " 


"Forbye some new, uncommon weapons, 


Deil mak his kings-hood in a spleuchan ! 


Urinus spiritus of capons ; 


He's grown sae weel acquaint wi' Buchani 


Or mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings, 


An' ither chaps. 


Distill' d per se; 


The weans hand out their fingers laughin 


Sal-alkali 0' midge-tail clippings. 


And pouk my hips. 


And mony mae." 


" See, here's a scythe; and there's a dart. 


" Waes me for Johnny Ged's-Hole^ now," 


They hae pierc'd mony a gallant heart ; 


Quo' I, "If that thae news be true! 


But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art 


His braw calf-ward whare gowans grew, 


And cursed skill, 


Sae white and bonie, 


Has made them baith no worth a f— t. 


Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plew ; 


Damn'd haet they'll kill. 


They'll ruin Johnie '" 


"'Twas but yestreen, nae farther gaen, 


The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh. 


I threw a noble throw at ane ; 


And says, "Ye need na yoke the pleugh. 


Wi' less, I'm sure, I'tc hundreds slain ; 


Barkyards will soon be till'd eneugh. 


But-deil-ma-carej 


Tak ye nae fear ; 


It just play'd dirl on the bane, 


They'U a' be trench'd wi' mony a sheugh 


But did nae mair 


In twa-three year. 


'« Hornbook was by, wi' ready art. 


"Whare I kill'd ane a fair strae death. 


And had sae fortified the part. 


By loss 0' blood or want of breath. 


That when I looked to my dart. 


This night I'm free to tak my aith, 


It was sae blunt, 


That H.irnbook's skiL 


Pient haet o't wad hae pierc'd the heart 


Has clad a score i' their last alaith, 


Of a kail-runt. 


•By drap an' pilL 


" I drew my scythe in sic a fury. 


"An honest wabster to his trade. 


* I nearhand cowpit wi' my hurry. 


Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce weel bret^ 


fciut yet the bauld Apothecary, 


Gat tippence-worth to "mend her head, 


Withstood the shock ; 


When it was sair ; 


I might as weel hae tried a quarry 


The wife slade cannie to her bed. 


0' hard whin rock. 


But ne'er spak mau 


1 Buchan's Domestic Medicine. 


« The grave-digger 



78 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



" A countra laird had ta'en the batts, 
Or some curmurring in his guts, 
His only son for Hornbook sets, 

An' pays him well. 
The lad, for twa guid gimmer-pets, 

Was laird himsel. 

«' A bonnie lass, ye kend her name. 

Some ill-brewn drink had hov'd her wame; 

She trusts hersel, to hide the shame, 

In Hornbook's care ; 
Uorn sent her afF to her lang hame, 

To hide it there. 

« That's just a swatch o' Hornbook's way; 
Thus goes he on from day to day, 
Thus does he poison, Kiu, an' slay, 

An's weel paid for't ; 
Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prey, 

Wi' his d-mn'd dirt : 

«■' But, hark ! I'll tell you of a plot. 
Though dinna ye be speaking o't; 
I'll nail the self-conceited sot, 

As dead's a herrin' ; 
Niest time we meet, I'll wad a groat, 

He gets his fairin' !" 

But just as he began to tell, 

The auld kirk-h^ramer strak' the bell 

Some wee short, k<our ayont the twal. 

Which rais'd us baith ; 
I took the way thw pleas' d mysel', 

And sae did Death. 



XVI. 

THE TWA HERDS; 

OR, 

THE HOLY TULZIE. 

[The actors in this indecent drama were Moodie; 
E* Eistfii of Ricartoun, and Russell, helper to the minister 
■y[ Kilmarnock : though apostles of the " Old Light," 
ti>*y forgot their brotherhood in the vehemence of con- 
troT^rsr, and went, it is said, to blows. " This poem," 
Sdf a Xtrns, " with a certain description of the clergy as 
Jl^fci as .aity, met with a roar of applause."] 

a' ye pious godly flocks, 
Weel fed on pastures orthodox, 
Wha now will keep you frae the fox, 

Or worrying tykes, 
Or wha will tent the waifs and crocks, 

About the dykes ? 



The twa best herds in a' the wast, 
That e'er ga'e gospel horn a blast, 
These five and twenty simmers past, 

! dool to tell, 
Ha'e had a bitter black out-cast 

Atween themsel. 

0, Moodie, man, and wordy Ri gsell. 
How could you raise so vile a bustle, 
Ye'U see how New-Light herds will whistle 

And think it fine : 
The Lord's cause ne'er got sic a twistle 

Sin' I ha'e min'. 

0, sirs! whae'er wad ha'e expeckit 

Your duty ye wad sae negleckit. 

Ye wha were ne'er by lairds respeckit. 

To wear the plaid. 
But by the brutes themselves eleckit, 

To be their guide. 

What flock wi' Hoodie's flock could rank, 
Sae hale and hearty every shank, 
Nae poison'd sour Arminian stank. 

He let them taste, 
Frae Calvin's well, ay clear they drank,— 

sic a feast ! 

The thummart, wil'-cat, brock, and tod, 
Weel kend his voice thro' a' the wood. 
He smelt their ilka hole and road, 

Baith out and in. 
And weel he lik'd to shed their bluid, 

And sell their skin. 

What herd like Russell tell'd his talu 
His voice was heard thro' muir and dale, 
He kend the Lord's sheep, ilka tail, 

O'er a' the height. 
And saw gin they were sick or hale. 

At the first sight. 

He fine a mangy sheep could scrub. 

Or nobly fling' the gospel club, 

And New-Light herds could nicely drub, 

Or pay their skin ; 
Could shake them o'er the burning dub, 

Or heave them in. 

Sic twa — ! do I live to see't. 
Sic famous twa should disagreet. 
An' names, like villain, hypocrite, 

Hk ither gi'en, 
While New-Light herds, wi' laughin' Bpit«k 

Say neither's Uein' I 



OF KOBERT BURNS. 



^9 



An.' ye wha tent the gospel fauld. 
There's Duncan, deep, and Peebles, shaul, 
B'lt chiefly thou apostle Auld, 

We trust in thee, 
That fhou wilt work them, hot and cauldj 

Till they agree. 

GiWisider, Sirs how we're beset ; 
There's scarce a new herd that we get 
But cornea frae mang that cursed set 

I winna name ; 
L hope- frae heaVn to see them yet 

In fiery flame. 

Dalrymple has been lang our faie, 
M'Gill has wrought us meikle wae. 
And that curs'd rascal call'd M'Quhae, 

And baith the Shaws, 
Taat aft ha'e made us black and blae, 

Wi' vengefu' paws. 

Auld Wodrow lang has hatch'd mischief, 
We thought ay death wad bring relief, 
but he has gotten, to our grief, 

Ane to succeed him, 
A chield wha'U soundly buff our beef; 

I meikle dread him. 

And mony a ane that I could tell, 
Wha fain would openly rebel, 
Forbye turn-coats amang oursel. 

There's Smith for ane, 
I doubt he's but a grey-nick quill. 

An' that ye'U fin'. 



01 a' ye flocks o'er a' the hills. 

By mosses, meadows, moors, and fells, 

Conle, join your counsel and your skills 

To cow the lairds. 
And got the brutes the powers themsels 

To choose their herds ; 

Then Orthodoxy yet may prance, 
And Learning in a woody dance, 
Aiid that fell cur ca'd Common Sense, 

That bites sae sair, 
Bs banish'd o'er the sea to France : 

Let him bark there. 

Then Shaw's and Dalrymple's eloquence, 
M'Gill's close nervous excellence, 
M'Quhae's pathetic manly sense, 

And guid M'Math, 
Wi' Smith, wha thro' the heart can glance, 

May a' pack aflF. 



HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER. 

" And send the godly in a pet to pray." 

POPK. 

[Of this sarcastic and too daring poem many copies it 
manuscript were circulated while the poet iired, bol 
though not unknown or unfelt by Currie, it (soatiaueij 
unpublished till printed by Stewart with the Jol.y 
Beggars, in 1801. Holy Willie was a small farme' 
leading elder to Auld, a name well known to all level* 
of Burns;- austere in speech, scrupulous m all outward 
observances, and, what is known by the name of a "pro- 
fessing Christian." He experienced, however, a " sora 
fall;" he permitted himself to be "filled fou," and in q 
moment when "self got in" made free, it is aaid, with 
the money of the poor of the parish. His name wa» 
William Fisher.] 

THOU, wha in the heavens dost dwelL 
Wha, as it pleases best thysel'. 
Sends ane to heaven, and ten to hell, 

A' for thy glory, 
And no for ony gude or ill 

They've done afore thee' 

1 bless and praise thy matchless ihight, 
Whan thousands thou hast left in night 
That I am here afore thy sight. 

For gifts and grace, 
A burnin' and a shinin' light 

To a' this place. 

What was I, or my generation, 
That I should get sic exaltation, 
I wha deserve sic just damnation. 

For broken laws, 
Five thousand years 'fore my creation. 

Thro' Adam's cause. 

When frae my mither's womb I fell, 
Thou might hae plunged me in hell. 
To gnash my gums, to weep and wall, 

In burnin' lake, 
Whar damned d-^vils roar and yell, 

Cham'd to a stake. 



Yet I am here a chosen sample ; 

To show thy grace is great and ample | 

I'm here a pillar in thy temple. 

Strong as a rock, 
A guide, a buckler, an example. 

To a' thy flock. 

But yet, Lord ! confess I must. 
At times I'm fash'd wi' fleshly lust; 



60 THE POETICAL WOfTKS 


And sometimes, too, wi' warldly rru'it, 


To think how we stood groanin', shakin', 


Vile self getn m ; 


And swat wi' dread. 


But thou remembers we are dust, 


While Auld wi' hingin lips gaed sneakin* 


Defil'd in sin. 


And hung his head. 


' Lord ! yestr'^er *Jhou kens, wi' Meg — 


Lord, in the day of vengeance try him, 


Thy par ion I sincerely beg. 


Lord, visit them wha did employ him, 


! may'^ ne'er be a livin' plague 


And pass not in thy mercy by 'em, 


To my dishonour, 


Nor hear their pray'r ; 


An' I'll ne'er lift a lawless leg 


But for thy people'^s sake destroy 'em, 


Again upon her. 


And dinna spare. 


Besides, I farther maun allow. 




Wi' Lizzie's lass, three times I trow — 


But, Lord, remember me an mine, 


But Lord, that Friday I was fou, 

AVhen I came near he^. 
Or else, thou kens, thy servant true 


Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine. 
That I for gear and grace may shme, 

Excell'd by nane, 
And a' the glory shall be thine. 

Amen, Amen! 


Wad ne'er hae steer'd her. 


Maybe thou lets this fleshly thorn. 




Beset thy servant e'en and morn. 

Lest he owre high and proud should turn, 






'Cause he's sae gifted ; 




If sae, thy han' ruaun e'en be borne 


XVIII. 


iTntil thou lift it. 






EPITAPH ON HOLY WILLIP 


Lord, bless thy chosen in this place. 


[We are informed by Richmond of Mauchline, that 


For here thou hast a chosen race : 


when he was clerk in Gavin Hamilton's office, Burns canw 


But God confound their stubborn face. 


in one morning and said, " I have just composed a poem, 


And blast their name. 


John, and if you will write it, I will repeat it." He 


Wha bring thy elders to disgrace 


repeated Holy Willie's Prayer and Epitaph ; Hamilton 
came in at the moment, and having read them with delight 


And public shame. 


ran laughing with them in his hand to Robert Aiken. 




The end of Holy Willie was other than godly : in one 


Lord, mind Gawn Hamilton's deserts. 


of his visits to Mauchline, he drank more than was need 


He dx'inks, and swears, and plays at carts. 


ful, fell into a ditch on his way home,, and was found 


Yet has sae mony takin' arts. 


dead in the morning.] 


Wi' grit and sma'. 


Here Holy Willie's sair worn clay 


Frae God's ain priests the people's hearts 


Takes up its last abode ; 


He steals awa. 


His saul has ta'en some other way, 


An' whan w« chasten'd him therefore. 


I fear the left-hand road. 


Thou kens how he bred sic a splore. 




As set the warld in a roar 


Stop ! there he is, as sure's a gun, 


0' laughin' at us ; — 


Poor, silly body, see him ; 


Curse thou his basket and his store. 


Nae wonder he's as black's the grun. 


Kail an' potatoes. 


Observe wha's standing wi' him. 


Lord, hear my earnest cry and pray'r, 


Your brunstane devilship I see, ^ 


Against the presbyt'ry of Ayr ; 


Has got him there before ye ; 


Thy strong right hand, Lord, mak it bare 


But haud your nine-tail cat a wee, 


Upo' their heads. 


Till ance you've heard my story. 


uord weigh it down, and dinna spare, 




For their misdeeds. 


Your pity I will not implore, 




For pity ye hae nane ; 


Lord my God, that glib-tongu'd Aiken, 


Justice, alas! has gi'en him o'er, 


My very heart and saul are quakin', 


And mercy's day is gaen. 



OF EGBERT BURNS. 



81 



But hear me, sir, deil as ye are, 
Look something to your credit ; 

4 coof like him wad stain your name, 
If it were kent ye did it. 



XIX.' 
THE INVENTORY; 

ai AN«WEB. TO A MANDATE BY THE SUBVETOE 
OF THE TAXES. 

[We have heard of a poor play-actor who, by a humor- 
ous inventory of his effects, so moved the commissioners 
of the income tax, that they remitted all claim on him 
then and for ever ; we know not that this very humorous 
inventory of Burns had any such effect on Mr. Aiken, the 
surveyor of the taxes. It ia dated " Mossgiel, February 
22d, 17S6," and is remarkable for wit and sprightliness, 
and for the information which it gives us of the poet's 
nabits, household, and agricultural implements.] 

SiK, as your mandate did request, -' 
I send you here a faithfu' list, 
0' gudes, an' gear, an' a' my graith. 
To which I'm clear to gi'e my aith. 

Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle, 
I have four brutes o' gallant mettle, 
As ever drew afore a pettle. 
My Ian' afore's' a gude auld has been. 
An' wight, an' wilfu' a' his days been. 
My Ian ahin's^ a weel gaun fiUie, 
That aft has borne me hame frae Killie,^ 
An' your auld burro' mony a time. 
In days when riding was nae crime — 
But ance, whan in my wooing pride, 
I like a blockhead boost to ride. 
The wilfu' creature sae I pat to, 
(L — d pardon a' my sins an' that too !) 
I i^lay'd my flllie sic a shavie. 
She's a' bedevil'd with the spavie. 
My fur ahin's'* a wordy beast. 
As e'er in tug or tow was trac'd. 
The fourth's a Highland Donald hastie, 
A d— u'd red wud Kilburnie blastie! 
Forbye a cowt o' cowt's the wale. 
As ever ran afore a tail. 
If he be spar'd to be a beast, 
He'll draw me fifteen pun' at least. — 
Wheel carriages I ha'e but few. 
Three carts, an' twa are feckly new; 

• The fore-horse on the left-hand in the plough. 
» The hindmost on tlie left-hand in the plough . 
6 



Ae auld wheelbarrow, mair for token, 
Ae leg an' baith the trams are broken ; 
I made a poker o' the spin'le. 
An' my auld mither brunt the trin'le. 

For men I've three mischievous boys, 
Run de'ils for rantin' an' for noise ; 
A gaudsman ane, a thrasher t'other. 
Wee Davock bauds the nowt in fother. 
I rule them as I ought, discreetly. 
An' aften labour them completely ; 
An' ay on Sundays, duly, nightly, 
I on the Questions targe them tightly ; 
Till, faith, wee Davock's turn'd sae gleg; 
Tho' scarcely langer than your leg. 
He'll screed you aff Effectual calling, 
As fast as ony in the d walling. 
I've nane in female servan' station, 
(Lord keep me ay frae a' temptation !) 
Iha'e nae wife — and that my bliss is, 
An' ye have laid nae tax on misses ; 
An' then, if kirk folks dinna clutch me. 
I ken the devils darena touch me. 
Wi' weans I'm mair than weel contented, 
Heav'n sent me ane mae than I wanted 
My sonsie smirking dear-bought Bess, 
She stares the daddy in her face. 
Enough of ought ye like but grace ; 
But her, my bonnie sweet wee lady, 
I've paid enough for her already, 
An' gin ye tax her or her mither, 
B' the L — d ! ye'se get them a'thegither 

And now, remember, Mr. Aiken, 
Nae kind of license out I'm takin' ; 
Frae this time forth, I do declare 
I'se ne'er ride horse nor hizzie mair; 
Thro' dirt and dub for life I'll paidle, 
Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle-; 
My travel a' on foot I'll shank it, 
I've sturdy bearers, Gude be thankit. 
The kirk and you may tak' you that. 
It puts but little in your pat ; 
Sae dinna put me in your buke; 
Nor f^ r my ten white shillings luke 

This list wi' my ain hand I wrote it, 
The day and date as under noted ; 
Then know all ye whom it concerns, 
Subscripsi huic , Robert Burns. 



3 Kilmarnock. 

4 The hindmost horse on the right-hand in the plou»i 



82 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



THE HOLY FAIR, 

A robe of seeming truth an 1 trust 

Hid crafty observation; 
And secret hung, with poison'd crust, 

The dirk of Defamation : 
A. mask that like tho gorget sl.ow'd 

Dye- varying on the pigenn 
And for a mantle large and bixiad, 

He wrapt him in Religion. 

Hypockisy a-la-mode. 

[Ihe scene of this fine poem is the churchyard of 
WlttU'jhline, and the subject handled so cleverly and 
iliarply is the laxity of manners visible in matters so 
10 emn and terrible as the administration of the sacrament. 
»*This was iEdeed," says' Lockhart, " an extraordinary 
performance : no partisan of any sect could whisper that 
malice had formed its principal inspiration, or that its 
thief attraction lay in the boldness with which indi- 
viduals, entitled and accustomed to respect, were held 
up to ridicule : it was acknowledged, amidst the sternest 
mutterings of wrath, that national manners were once 
more in the hands of a national poet." " It is no doubt," 
says Hogg, "a reckless piece of satire, but it is a clever 
one, and must have cut to the bone. But much as I 
admire the poem I must regret that it is partly borrowed 
fnm Fergusson."] 

Upon a simmer Sunday morn, 

When Nature's face is fair, 
I walked forth to view the corn, 

An' snuff the caller air. 
The rising sun owre Galston muirs, 

Wi' glorious light was glintin' ; 
The hares were hirplin down the furs, 

The lav'rocks they were chantin' 

Fu' sweet that day. 

As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad, 

To see a scene sae gay. 
Three hizzies, early at the road, 

Cam skelpin up the way ; 
Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black. 

But ane wi' lyart lining ; 
The third, that gaed a-wee a-back, 

Was in the fashion shining 

Fu' gay that day 

The twa appear'd like sisters twin, 

In feature, form, an' claes ; 
Their visage, wither'd, lang, an' thin. 

An' sour as ony slaes : 
The third cam up, hap-step-an'-lowp, 

As light as ony lambie. 
An' wi' a curehie low did stoop. 

An "joon as e ?r she saw me, 

Fu' kind that day. 



Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, "Sweet ^ass, 

1 think ye seem to ken me ; 
I'm sure I've seen that bonnie face, 

But yet I canna name ye." 
Quo' she, an' laughin' as she spak, 

An' taks me by the hands, 
"Ye, for my sake, hae gi'en the feck. 

Of a' the ten commands 

A screed some day. 

"My name is Fun — your cronie dear, 

The nearest friend ye hae ; 
An' this is Superstition here, 

An' that's Hypocrisy. 
I'm gaun to Mauchline holy fair. 

To spend an hour in daffin : 
Gin ye'll go there, yon runkl'd pair, 

We will get famotis laughin' 

At them this day." 

Quoth I, " With a' my heart I'll do't ; 

I'll get my Sunday's sark on, 
An' meet you on the holy spot; 

Faith, we'se hae fine remarkin' !" 
Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time 

An' soon I made me ready ; 
For roads were clad, frae side to sid? 

Wi' monie a wearie body. 

In droves that day. 

Here farmers gash, in riJiE' graith 

Gaed hoddin by theJr cottars ; 
There, swankies young, in braw braid-ciaitli, 

Are springin' o'er the gutters. 
The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang. 

In silks an' scarlets glitter ; 
Wi' sweet-milk cheese, in monie a whang, 

An' farls bak'd wi' butter, 

Fu' crump that day. 

When by the plate we set our nose, 

Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence, 
A greedy glowr Black Bonnet throws, 

An' we maun draw our tippence. 
Then ia we go to see the show. 

On ev'ry side they're gath'rin', 
Some carrying dails, some chairs an' stools. 

An' some are busy blethrin' 

Eight laud that day. 

Here stands a shed to feni t?»e rhow'r8> 

An' screen our countra g.'^ntrv, 
There, racer Jess, and twa three wh tcb, 

Are blinkin' at the entry. 



OF EGBERT BURNS. 



SI 



Qere sits a raw of titlin' jades, 
"Wi* heaving breast and bare neck, 

In' there a batch o' wabster lads, 

Blackguarding frae Kilmarnock 

For fun this day. 

Here some are thinkin' on their sins, 

An' some up?' their claes ; 
Aiie carses fee*, that fyl'd his shins, 

Anither sighs an' prays : 
On this hand sits a chosen swatch, 

Wi' screw'd up grace-proud faces ; 
On that a set o' chaps at watch, 

Thrang winkin' on the lasses 

To chairs that day. 

happy is that man an' blest ! 

Nae wonder that it pride him ! 
Wha's ain dear lass that he likes best, 

Comes clinkin' down beside him ; 
Wi' arm repos'd on the chair back. 

He sweetly does compose him ; 
Which, by degrees, slips round her neck, 

An's loof upon her bosom, 

Unkenn'd that day. 

Now a' the congregation o'er 

Is silent expectation : 
For Moodie speels the holy door, 

Wr tidings o' damnation. 
Should Hornie, as in ancient days, 

'Mang sons o' God present hira, 
The vera sight o' Moodie's face, 

To's ain het hame had sent him 

Wi' fright that day. 

Hear how he clears the points o' faith 

TW ratlin' an' wi' thumpin' ! 
Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath. 

He's stampin an' he's jumpin' ! 
His lengthen'd chin, his turn'd-up snout. 

His eldritch squeel and gestures. 
Oh, how they fire the heart devout, 

Like cantharidian plasters. 
On sic a day. 

But hark ' the tent has chang'd its voice ; 

There's peace an' rest nae langer : , 
For a' the real judges rise, 

They canna sit for anger. 
Smith opens out his cauld harangues. 

On practice and on morals ; 
in' aff the godly pour in thrangs, 

To gie the jars an' barrels 

A lift that day. 



What signifies his barren shine. 

Of moral pow'rs and reason ? 
His English style, an' gestures fine, 

Are a' clean out o-" season. 
Like Socrates or Antonine, 

Or some auld pagan heathen, 
The moral man he does define. 

But ne'er a word o' faith in 

That's right that Jay 

In guid time comes an antidote 

Against sic poison'd nostrum ; 
For Peebles, frae the water-fit, 

Ascends the holy rostrum : 
See, up he's got the word o' God, 

An' meek an' mim has view'd it, 
While Common-Sense has ta'en the road, 

An' afi", an' up the Cowgate,' 

Fast, fast, that day. 

Wee Miller, neist the guard relieves, 

An' orthodoxy raibles, 
Tho' in his heart he weel believes, 

An' thinks it auld wives' fables : 
But faith ! the birkie wants a manse. 

So, cannily he hums them ; 
Altho' his carnal wit an' sense 

Likehafflins-wayso'ercomes him 
At times that day. 

Now but an' ben, the Change-house fills 

Wi' yill-caup commentators : 
Here's crying out for bakes and gills. 

An' there the pint-stowp clatters ; 
While thick an' thrang, an' loud an' lang. 

Wi' logic, an' wi' scripture. 
They raise a din, that, in the end. 

Is like to breed a rupture 

wrath that day. 

Leeze me on drink ! it gies us mair 

Than either school or college : 
It kindles wit, it waukens lair. 

It pangs us fou' o' knowledge. 
Be't whisky gill, or penny wheep. 

Or ony stronger potion. 
It never fails, on drinking deep, 

To kittle up our notion 

By night or day 

The lads an' lasses, blythely bent 

To mind baith saul an' body, 
Sit round the table, weel content. 

An' steer about the toddy. 



A Bt' 3et so called, which faces the tent in Mauch. 



THE POETICAL WO IKS 



On this ane's dress, an' that ane's leuk, 
They're making observations ; 

While some are cozie i' the neuk, 
An' formin' assignations 

To meet some day. 

But now the Lord's ain trumpet touts, 

Till a' the hills are rairin', 
An' echoes back return the shouts : 

Black Russell is na' sparin' : 
His piercing words, like Highlan' swords, 

Divide the joints and marrow ; 
His talk o' Hell, where devils dwell, 

Our vera sauls does harrow' 

Wi' fright that day. 

A vast, unbottom'd boundless pit, 

Fill'd fou o' lowin' brunstane, 
Wha's ragin' flame, an' scorchin' heat, 

Wad melt the hardest whun-stane ! 
The half asleep start up wi' fear, 

An' think they hear it roarin', 
When presently it does appear, 

'Twas but some neibor snorin' 

Asleep that day. 

'Twad be owre lang a tale to tell 

How monie stories past. 
An' how they crowded to the yill. 

When they were a' dismist: 
How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caups, 

Amang the furms an' benches : 
An' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps, 

Was dealt about in lunches, 

An' dawds that day. 

In comes a gaucie, gash guidwife, 

An' sits down by the fire. 
Syne draws her kebbuck an' her knife ; 

The lasses they are shyer. 
The auld guidmen, about the grace; 

Frae side to side they bother, 
Till some ane by his bonnet lays. 

An' gi'es them't like a tether, 

Fu' lang that day. 

Waesucks ! for him that gets nae lass, 

Or lasses that hae naething; 
Sma' need has he to s xy a grace, 

Or melvie his braw claithing ! 
U wives, be mindfu' ance yoursel 

How bonnie lads ye wanted. 



' Shakspeare's Hamlet. 

' AUuiIing to a scoffing ballad which was made on the 



An' dinna, for a kebbuck-heel, 
Let lasses be affronted 

On sic a day ! 

Now Clinkumbell, wi' ratlin tow, 

Begins to jow an' croon; 
Some swagger hame, the best they dtw, 

Some wait the afternoon. 
At slaps the billies halt a blink. 

Till lasses strip their shoon : 
Wi' faith an' hope, an' love an' drink. 

They're a' in famous tune 

For crack that day. 

How monie hearts this day converts 

0' sinners and o' lasses ! 
Their hearts o' stane, gin night, are gane, 

As saft as ony flesh is. 
There's some are fou o' love divine ; 

There's some are fou o' brandy; 
An' monie jobs that day begin 

May end in houghmagandie 

Some ither day. 



THE ORDINATION. 

" For sense they little owe to frugal heav'n — 
To please the mob they hide the little giv'n." 

[This sarcastic sally was written on the admission of 
Mr. Mackinlay, as one of the ministers to the Laigh, oj 
parochial Kirk of Kilmarnock, on the 6th of April, 1786 
Tliat reverend person was an Auld Light professor, and 
his ordination incensed all the New Ligl;ts. hence tha 
bitter levity of the poem. These dissensions have long 
since past away: Mackinlay, a pious and kind-hearted 
sincere man, lived down all the personalities of the satire^ 
and though unwelcome at first, he soon learned to regars! 
them only as a proof of the powers of the poet 1 

Kilmarnock wabsters fidge an' claw, 

An' pour your creeshie nations ; 
An' ye wha leather rax an' draw, 

Of a' denominations, 
Swith to the Laigh Kirk, ane an' a'. 

An' there tak up your stations; 
Then aff to Begbie's in a raw. 

An' pour divine libations 

For joy this day. 

Curst Common-Sense, that imp o' hell. 
Cam in wi' Maggie Lauder \^ 



admission of the late reverend and worthy Mr. 
to the Laigh Kirk. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 85 


But Oliphant aft made her yell, 


Come, screw the pegs, wi' tunefu' cheepi, 


An' Russell sair misca'd her; ' 


And o'er the thairms be tryin' ; 


This day Mackinlay taks the flail, 


Oh, rare ! to see our elbucks wheep, 


And he's the hoy will blaud her ! 


An a' like lamb-tails flj'in' 


He'll clap a shangan on her tail, 


Fu' fast this day! 


An' set the bairns to dand her 




Wi' dirt this day. 


Lang Patronage, wi' rod o' airn. 




Has shor'd the Kirk's undoin', 


Mak haste an' turn king David cvriC, 


As lately Fenwick, sair forfairn, 


An' lilt wi' holy clangor ; 


Has proven to its ruin : 


0' double verse come gie us tour. 


Our patron, honest man! Glencaiin, 


An' skirl up the Bangor : 


He saw mischief was brewin''; 


This day the Kirk kicks up a stoure, 


And like a godly elect bairn 


Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her. 


He's wal'd us out a true ane. 


For Heresy is in her pow'r. 


And sound this day 


And gloriously she'll whang her 




Wi' pith this day. 


Now, Robinson, harangue nae mair. 




But steek your gab for ever • 


Come, let a proper text be read, 


Or try the wicked town of Ayr, 


An' touch it aff wi' vigour, 


For there they'll think you clevei , 


How graceless Ham' leugh at his dad, 


Or, nae reflection on your lear. 


Which made Canaan a niger ; 


Ye may commence a shaver ; 


Or Phineas^ drove the murdering blade, 


Or to the Netherton repair. 


Wi' wh-re-abhorring rigour ; 


And turn a carpet-weaver 


Or Zipporab,3 the scauldin' jad. 


Aff-hand this day. 


Was like a bluidy tiger 




I' th' inn that day. 


Mutrie and you were just a match. 




We never had sic twa drones : 


There, try his mettle on the creed, 


Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk watch 


And bind him down wi' caution. 


Just like a winkin' baudrons : 


That stipend is a carnal weed 


And ay* he catch'd the tither wretch, 


He taks but for the fashion ; 


To fry them in his caudrons ; 


And gie him o'er the flock, to feed, 


But now his honour maun detach, 


And punish each transgression ; 


Wi' a' his brimstane squadrons, 


Especial, rams that cross the breed. 


Fast, fast this day. 


Gie them sufScient threshin'. 




Spare them nae day 


See, see auld Orthodoxy's faes 
She's swingein' through the city; 


Now, auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail. 


Hark, how the nine-tail' d cat she plays! 


And toss thy horns fu' canty ; 


I vow it's unco pretty : 


Nae mair thou'lt rowte out-owre the dale, 


There, Learning, with his Greekish face, 


Because thy pasture's scanty ; 


Grunts out some Latin ditty ; 


For lapfu's large o' gospel kail 


And Common Sense is gaun^ she says, 


Shall fill thy crib in plenty. 


To mak to Jamie Beattie 


An' runts o' grace the pick and wa!e. 


Her plaint this day, 


No gi'en by way o' dainty. 


But there's Morality himsel', 


But ilka day. 


Embracing all opinions ; 


Nae mair by Babel's streams we'll weep, 


Hear, how he gies the tither yell 


To think upon our Zion ; 


Between his twa companions ; 


\jid hing our fiddles up to sleep. 


See, how she peels the skin an' fell, 


Like baby-clouts a-dryin' : 


As ane were peelin' onions ! 




Now there — they're packed aff to hell, 
And banished our dominions. 


\ GoDesis, IX. 22. 2 Numbers, xxv. 8. 


3ESMHB, iv 25 


Henceforth this day. 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



0, happy day! rejoice, rejoice! 

Come bouse about the porter ! 
Morality's demure decoys 

Shall here nae mair find quarter : 
Mackinlay, Russell, are the boys, 

That Heresy can torture : 
They'll gie her on a rape a hoyse, 

And cowe her measure shorter 

By th' head some day. 

Come, bring the tither mutchkin in, 

And here's for a conclusion, 
To every New Light' mother's son. 

From this time forth Confusion : 
If mair they deave us wi' their din, 

Or Patronage intrusion. 
We'll light a spunk, and ev'ry skin, 

We'll rin them aff in fusion 

Like oil, some day. 



THE CALF. 

TO THE KEV. MK. JAMBS STEVEN, 

Ob lus text, Malachi, iv. 2. — "And ye shall go forth, 
and grow up as Calves of the stalff" 

[The ".augh wtiich this little poem raised against 
Steven was a loud one. Burns composed it during the 
eermoti to which it relates and repeated it to Gavin 
Hamilton, with whom he happened on that day to dine. 
The Calf— for the name it seems stuck — came to Lon- 
ion, where the younger brother of Burns heard him 
»feach in Covent Garden Chapel, in 1790.] 

Right, Sir ! your text I'll prove it true; 

Though Heretics may laugh ; 
For instance ; there's yoursel' just now, 

God knows, an unco Calf! 

And should some patron be so kind, 

As bless you wi' a kirk, 
i deubt na, Sir, but then we'll find, 

Ye're still as great a Stirk. 

But, if the lover's raptur'd hour 

Shall ever be your lot. 
Forbid it, ev'ry heavenly power, 

You e'er should be a stot! 



Tho', when some kind, connubial dear. 

Your but-and-ben adorns. 
The like^as been that you may wear 

A noble head of horns 

And in your lug, most reverend James, 
To hear you roar and rowte. 

Few men o' sense will doubt your claims 
To rank amang the nowte. 

And when ye're number'd wi' the dead, 

Below a grassy hillock, 
Wi' justice they may mark your head — 

" Here lies a famous Bullock !" 



1 " New Light" is a cant phrase in the West of Scot- 
and, .'"iiv those religious opinions which Dr. Taylor of 
^'o'wiAh has defended 



XXIII. 

TO JAMES SMITH. 

" Friendship ! mysterious cement of the soui ! 
Sweet'ner of life and solder of society ! 
I owe thee much ! — " 

Blair. 

[The James Smith, to whom this epistle is addressed, 
was at that time a small shopkeeper in Mauchline, and 
the comrade or rather follower of the poet m all hii 
merry expeditions with " Yill-caup commentators." IJfl 
was present in Posie Nansie's when the Jolly Beggart 
£ st dawned on the fancy of Burns : the comrades of iue 
poet's heart were not generally very successful in life ; 
Smith left Mauchline, and established a calico-printing 
manufactory at Avon near Linlithgow, where his friend 
found him m all appearance prosperous in 178S : bat thii 
was not to last ; he failed in his speculations and went 
to tlie West Indies, and died early. His wit was ready 
and his manners lively and unaffected.] 

Dear Smith, the sleest, paukie thief. 
That e'er attempted stealth or rief. 
Ye surely hae some warlock-breef 

Owre human hearts , 
For ne'er a bosom yet was prief 

Against your arts. 

For me, I swear by sun an' moon, 
And ev'ry star that blinks aboon, 
Ye 7e cost me twenty pair o' shoon 

Just gaun to see you ; 
And ev'ry ither pair that's done, 

Mair ta'en I'm wi' you 

That auld capricious carlin, Nature, 
To mak amends for scrimpit stature. 
She's tjirn'd you aff, a human creature 

On her first plan ; 
And in her freaks, on every feature 

She's wrote, the Man 



OF KOBEET BURNS. 



m 



Jast now I've ta'on the fit o' rhyme, 
My barmie noddle's working prime, 
My fancy yerkit it up sublime 

Wi' hasty summon : 
Ha« 7< a leisure-moment's time 

To hear what's comin' ? 

BOBte rhyme a neighbour's name to lash ; 
Some rhyme (vain thought!) for needfu' CAsh: 
fiome rhyme to court the countra clash, 

An' raise a din; 
For me, an aim I never fash ; 

I rhyme for fun. 

The s«ar that rules my luckless lot, 

Has fated me the russet coat, 

An' damn'd my fortune to the groat ; 

But in requit. 
Has blest me with a random shot 

0' countra wit. 

This while my notion's ta'en a sklent. 
To try my fate in guid black prent ; 
But still the mair I'm that way bent, 

Something cries "Hoolie! 
I red you, hoinest man, tak tent ! 

Ye'U shaw your folly. 

" There's i^ithe? poets much your betters, 
Far seen in Greek, deep men o' letters, 
Hae thought they had ensur'd their debtors, 

A' future ages : 
Now moths deform in shapeless tatters. 

Their unknown pages. ' 

Then farewell hopes o' laurel-boughs, 
To garland my poetic brows ! 
Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs 

Ai-e whistling thrang. 
An' teach the lanely heights an' howes 

My rustic sang. 

I'll wander on, with ientless heed 
How never-halting moments speed. 
Till fate shall snap the brittle thread ; 

Then, all unknown, 
I'll lay me with th' inglorious dead,/ 

Forgot and gone! 

But why o' death begin a tale ? 

Just now we're living sound and hale. 

Then top and maintop crowd the sail, 

Heave care o'er side ! 
And large, before enjoyment's gale. 

Let's tak the tide. 



This life, sae far's I understand. 
Is a' enchanted fairy land, 
Where pleasure is the magic wan^. 

That, wielded rightj 
Maks hours like minutes, hand in hand. 

Dance by fu' light. 

The magic wand then let us wield ; 
For, ance that five-an' -forty's speei'i. 
See crazy, weary, j oyless eild, 

Wi' wriiikl'd face, 
Comes hostin', hirplin', owre the field, 

Wi' creepin' pace. 

When ance life's day draws near the gloa,1un' 
Then fareweel vacant careless roamin' ; 
An' fareweel cheerfu' tankards foamin', 

An' social noise ; 
Au' fareweel dear, deluding woman ! 

The joy of joys' 

Life ! how pleasant in thy morning, 
Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning I 
Cold-pausing Caution's lesson scorning, 

We frisk away. 
Like school-boys, at th' expected warning, 

To joy and play. 

We wander there, we wander here. 
We eye the rose upon the brier. 
Unmindful that the thorn is near, 

Among the leaves ; 
And tho' the puny wound appear. 

Short while it grieves. 

Some, lucky, find a flow'ry spot. 
For which they never toil'd nor swat ; 
They drink the sweet and eat the fat, 

But care or pain ; 
And, haply, eye the barren hut 

With high disdain. 

With steady aim some Fortune chase; 
Keen hope does ev'ry sinew brace; 
Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the raee, 

And seize the prey ; 
Then cannie, in some cozie place, 

^hey close the day 

And others, like your humble servan'. 
Poor wights ! nae rules nor roads observin' 
To right or left, eternal swervin'. 

They zig-zag on ; 
'Till curst with age, obscure an' starvin', 

They aften groan. 



88 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



Alas ! what bitter toil an' straining — 
But truce with peevish, poor complaining ! 
[s fortune's fickle Luna waning ? 

E'en let her gang! 
Beneath what light she has remaining, 

Let's sing our sang. 

M\ pen I here fling to the door, 

kni kneel, " Ye Pow'rs," and warm implore, 

"The' I should wander terra e'er. 

In all her climes, 
Grant me out this, I ask no more, 

Ay rowth o' rhymes. 

'Gie dreeping roasts to countra lairds, 
Till icicles hing frae their beards ; 
Gie fine braw claes to fine life-guards. 

And maids of honour ! 
And yill an' whisky gie to cairds, 

Until they sconner. 

" A title, Dempster merits it ; 

A garter gie to Willie Pitt ; 

Gie wealth to some be-ledger'd cit. 

In cent, per cent. 
But give me real, sterling wit. 

And I'm content. 

"While ye are pleas'd to keep me hale, 
I'll sit down o'er my scanty meal, 
Be't water-brose, or muslin-kail, 

Wi' cheerfu' face, 
As lang's the muses diMia fail 

To say the grace." 

An anxious e'e I never throws 
Behint my lug, or by my nose ; 
I jouk beneath misfortune's blows 

As weel's I may ; 
Bworn foe to sorrow, care, and prose, 

I rhyme away. 

ye douce folk, that live by rule. 
Brave, tideless-blooded, calm and cool, 
Oompar'd wi' you — fool ! fool ! fool ! 

How much unlike 1 
Tour hearts are just a standing pool, 

liour lives a dyke ' 

Nae hair-brain'd, sentimental traces. 
In your unletter'd nameless faces ! 
In arioso trills and graces 

Ye never stray, 
But gravissimo, solemn basses 

Ye hum away. 



Ye are sae grave, hae doubt ye're wise ; 

Nae ferly tho' ye do despise 

The hairum-scarum, ram-stam boys, 

The rattling squad: 
I see you upward cast your eyes — • 

Ye ken the road — 

Whilst I — but I shall baud me there— 
Wi' you I'll scarce gang ony where — 
Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair, 

But quat my sang. 
Content wi' you to mak a pair, 

Whare'er I gang. 



XXIV. 
THE VISION. 

DUAN FIRST. 1 



[The Vision and the Briggs of Ayr, are said by Jeffra; 
to be "the only pieces bv Burns vrhich can be claMOd 
under the head of pure fiction:" but Tam o' Shantei 
and twenty other of his compositions have an equa< 
right to be classed with works of fiction The edittiti 
of this poem published at Kilman/ock, differs in some 
particulars from the edition which followed in Edin- 
burgh. The maiden whose foot was so handsome as to 
match that of Coila, was a Bess at first, but old affection 
triumphed, and Jean, for whom the honour was from 
the first designed, regained her place. The robe o.f 
Coila, too, was expanded, so far indeed that she go! 
more cloth than she could well carry.] 

The sun had clos'd the winter day. 
The curlers quat their roaring play, 
An' hunger'd maukin ta'en her Way 

To kail-yards green, 
While faithless snaws ilk step betray 

Whare she has been. 

The thresher's weary flingin'-tree 
The lee-lang day had tired me ; . 
And when the day had clos'd his e'e 

Far i' the west, 
Ben i' the spence, right pensiveliO; 

I gaed to rest. 

There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek, 
I sat and ey'd the spewing reek. 
That fiU'd, wi' hoast-provoking smeek, 

The auld clay biggin' ; 
An' heard the restless rattons squeak 

About the riggin'. 



1 Duan, a term of Ossian's for the different (JiviaioOi 
of a digressive poem. See his " Cath-Loda," vol. u, jf 
Macpherson's translation. 



- 

OF' ROBERT BURNS. gS 


All in this mottie, misty clime, 


And such a leg ! my bonnie Jean 


I backward mused on wastet time, 


Could only peer it ; 


How I had spent my youthfu' prime, 


Sae straught, sae taper, tight, and clean, 


An' done nae thing, 


Nane else came near it 


But stringin' blethers up in rhyme. 




For fools to sing. 


Her mantle large, of greenish hue. 




My gazing wonder chiefly drew ; 


Had I to guid advice but harkit. 


Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling, thte« 


I might, by this hae led a market. 


A lustre grand ; 


Or strutted in a bank an' clarkit 


And seem'd to my astonish'd view. 


My cash-account : 


A well-known land 


While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkit 




Is a' th' amount. 


Here, rivers in the sea were lost ; 




There, mountains to the skies were tost: 


I started, mutt'ring, blockhead! coof.' 


Here, tumbling billows mark'd the coast, 


And heav'd on high my waukit loof. 


With surging foam; 


To swear by a' yon starry roof, 


There, distant shone Art's lofty boast. _ 


Or some rash aith. 


The lordly dome. 


That I,^ henceforth, would be rhyme-proof 




TiU my last breath— 


Here, Doon pour'd down his far-fetch' d floods 




There, well-fed Irwine stately thuds : 


When, click ! the string the snick did draw : 


Auld hermit Ayr staw thro' his woods, 


And, jee ! the door gaed to the wa' ; 


On to the shore : 


An' by my ingle-lowe I saw. 


And many a lesser torrent scuds, 


Now bleezin' bright, 


With seeming roar 


A tight outlandish hizzie, braw 




Come full in sight. 


Low, in a sandy valley spread. 




An ancient borough rear'd her head ; 


Ye need na doubt, I held my wisht ; 


Still, as in Scottish story read. 


The infant aith, half-form' d, was crusht ; 


She boasts a race, 


I glowr'd as eerie's I'd been dusht 


To ev'ry nobler virtue bred. 


In some wild glen ; 


And polish'd grace 


When sweet, like modest worth, she blusht, 




And stepped ben. 


By stately tow'r, or palace fair, 




Or ruins pendent in the air, 


Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs 


Bold stems of heroes, here and there, 


Were twisted, gracefu', round her brows. 


I could liscern ; 


I took her for some Scottish Muse, 


Some seem'd to muse, some seem'd to dare. 


By that same token ; 


With feature stern. 


An' come to stop those reckless vows, 




Wou'd soon be broken. 


My heart did glowing transport feel, 




To see a race' heroic wheel, 


A " hair-brain'd, sentimental trace" 


And brandish round the deep-dy'd steel 


Was strongly marked in her face ; 


In sturdy blows ; 


A wildly-witty, rustic grace 


While back-recoiling seem'd to reel 


Shone full upon her : 


Their southron foes. 


der eJ^ ev'n turn'd on empty space, 




Beam'd keen with honotir. 


His Country's SaTiour,^ mark him well ' 




Bold Richardton's3 heroic swell ; 


Down flow'd her robe, a tartan sheen, 


The chief on Sark^ Vho glorious fell, 


'Till half a leg was scrimply seen: 


In high command ; 


' The Wallaces. 


mand under Douglas, Earl of Ormond, at the famou 


ISirWilliamAVallace. 


battle on the banks of Sark, fought anno 1448. Tha 


8 Adam Wallace, of Richardton. cousin to the immor- 


glorious victory was principally owiiij, to the juOicioui 


k»» preserver of Scottish independence. 


conduct and intrepid valour of the gallant laird of Craigie, 


Wallace, Laiid oi" Craigie, who was second in com- 


who died of his wounds after the action. 



ftO 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



Ard He whom ruthless fates expel 


Who, all beneath his high command, 


His native land. 


Harmoniously, 




As arts or arms they understand. 


There, where a sceptr'd Pictish shade' 


Their labours ply. 


Stalk'd round his ashes lowly laid, 




I mark'd a martial race portray'd 


" They Scotia's race among them share; 


In colours strong ; 


Some fire the soldier on to dare ; 


Bold, soldier-featur'd, undismay'd 


Some rouse the patriot up to bare 


They strode along. 


Corruption's heart. 




Some teach the bard, a darling care, 


Thro' many a wild romantic grove,^ 


The tuneful art. 


Near many a hermit-fancy'd cove, 




(Fit haunts for friendship or for love,) 

In musing mood, 
An aged judge, I saw him rove, 


" 'Mong swelling floods of reeking gore. 
They, ardent, kindling spirits, pour ; 
Or 'mid the venal senate's roar, 


Dispensing good. 


They, sightless, stand, 


With deep-struck, reverential awe,3 


To mend the honest patriot-lore. 


The learned sire and son I saw, 


And grace the hand 


To Nature's God and Nature's law 




They gave their lore, 


"And when the bard, or hoary sage, 


This, all its source and end to draw ; 


Charm or instruct the future age, 


That, to adore. 


They bind the wild, poetic rage 




In energy. 


Brydone's brave ward"* I well could spy, 


Or point the. inconclusive page 


Beneath old Scotia's smiling eye ; 


Full on the eye. 


Who call'd on Fame, low standing by, 




To hand him on. 


" Hence FuUarton, the brave and young; 


Where many a Patriot-name on high 


Hence Dempster's zeal-inspired tongue; 


And hero shone. 


Hence sweet harmonious Beattie sung 




His ' Minstrel' lays ; 




Or tore, with noble ardour stung, 

The sceptic's bays. 




DXTAN SECOND. 




With musing-deep, astonish'd stare, 


" To lower orders are assign'd 


I view'd the heavenly-seeming fair ; 


The humbler ranks of human-kind, 


A whisp'ring throb did witness bear 


The rustic bard, the lab'ring hind, 


Of kindred sweet. 


The artisan ; 


When with an elder sister's air 


All choose, as various they're inclm'd 


She did me greet. 


The various man. 


"All hail ! My own inspired bard! 


"When yellow waves the heavy grain, 


m me thy native Muse regard ! 


The threat'nicg storm some, strongly, rein ; 


Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard, 


Some teach to meliorate the plain. 


Thus poorly low 1 


With tillage-skill ; 


, I Bomt to give thee such reward 


And some instruct the shepherd-train, 


As we bestow. 


Blythe o'er the i:ll. 


" Know, the great genius of this land, 


" Some hint the lover's harmless wile; 


Has many a light aerial band, 


Some grace the maiden's artless smile ; 


1 Coilus, king of the Picts, from whom the district of 


(Sir Thomas Miller of Glenlee, afterwards President of 


Kyle is said to take its name, lies buried, as tradition 


the Court of Session.) 


»ay8, near the family seat of the Montgomeries of Coils- 


3 Catrine, tlie seat of Professor Dugald Stewa't. 


6eld, where his burial-place is still shown. 


4 Colonel FuUarton. 


'Bsrskiraming, the seat of the late Lord Justice-Clerk 





OF EGBERT KbRi^g. 91 


Some soothe the lab'rer's weary toil, 


1 

" I saw thy pulse's maddening play, 


For humble gains, 


Wild send thee pleasure's devious way, 


And make his cottage-scenes beguile 


Misled by Fancy's meteor-ray, 


His cares and pains. 


By passion driven ; 




But yet the light that led astray 


«* Some, bounded to a district-space. 


Was light from Heavea. 


Explore at large man's infant race, 




To mark the embryotic trace 


"I taught thy manners-painting strains. 


Of rustic bard : 


The loves, the ways of simple swains, 


Anl sareful note each op'ning grace, 


Till now, o'er all my wide domains 


A guide and guard. 


Thy fame extends ; 




And some, the pride of Coila's plains. 


" Of these am I — Coila my name ; 


Become thy friends 


And this district as mine I claim. 




Where once the Campbells, chiefs of fama. 


" Thou canst not learn, nor can I show. 


Held ruling pow'r : 


To paint with Thomson'^s landscape glow ; 


I mark'd thy embryo-tuneful flame, 


Or wake the bosom-melting throe, 


Thy natal hour. 


With Shenstone's art ; 




Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow. 


" With future hope, I oft would gaze, 


Warm on the heart. 


Fond, on thy little early ways. 


-^ 


Thy rudely carroll'd, chiming phrase, 


"Yet, all beneath the unrivall'd rose, 


In uncouth rhymes. 


Thb lowly daisy sweetly blows ; 


Fir'd at the simple, artless lays 


ILq' large the forest's monarch throws 


Of other times. 


. His army shade, 




let green the juicy hawthorn grows. 


" 1 saw thee seek the sounding shore. 


Adown the glade 


Delighted with the dashing roar ; 




Or when the north his fleecy store 


'^ Then never murmur nor repine ; 


Drove through the sky, 


S Drive in thy humble sphere to shme • 


I saw grim Nature's visage hoar 


Aiid, trust me, not Potosi's mine. 


Struck thy young eye. 


Nor king's regard. 




i'lan give a bliss o'ermatching thin*. 


•' Or when the deep green-mantled earth 


A rustic bard. 


Warm cherish'd ev'ry flow'ret's birth. 




And joy and music pouring forth 


"To give my counsels all in one, 


In ev'ry grove. 


Thy tuneful flame still careful fan ; 


' saw thee eye the general mirth 


• Preserve the dignity of man. 


With boundless love. 


With soul erect. 




And trust, the universal plan 


"When ripen'd fields, and azure skies. 


Will all protect 


Called fortb "be reaper's rustling noise. 




I saw thee leave their evening joys, 


"And wear thou this,"— she sole/rm sail 


And lonely stalk, 


And bound the boUy round my h<s&d : 


1 '■ wtnt thy bosom's swelling rise 


The polish'd leaves and berries red 


In pensive walk. 


Did rustling play; 




And like a pasg»f.g thought, she flel 


" When youthful love, warm-blushing, strong, 


In light away 


Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along. 




Those accents, grateful to thy tongue. 


'-' 


Th' adored Name 




1 taught thee how to pour in song. 




To soothe thy flame. 





92 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



XXV. 

HALLOWEEN.! 

M Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, 
The simple pleasures of the lowly train ; 
To iKe more dear, congenial to my heart. 
One native charm, than all the gloss of art." 

GOLESMITH. 

[This Poem contains a lively and striking picture of 
lome of the superstitious observances of old Scotland : 
BB Halloween the desire to look into futurity was once 
t\: but universal in the north; and the charms and spells 
which Burns describes, form but a portion of those 
tmployed to enable the peasantr)' to have a peep up the 
dark vista of the future . The scene is laid on the romantic 
shores of Ayr, at a farmer's fireside, and the actors in the 
rustic drama are the whole household, including super- 
numerary reapers and bandsmen about to be discharged 
from the engagements of harvest. " I never can help 
regarding this," says James Hogg, " as rather a trivial 
noeml"] 

Upon that night, when fairies light 

On Cassilis Downans^ dance, 
Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze, 

On sprightly coursers prance ; 
Or for Colean the rout is ta'en, 

Beneath the moon's pale beams ; 
There, up the Cove,'' to stray an' rove 

Amang the rocks an' streams 

To sport that night. 

Amang the bonnie winding banks 

Where Doon rins, wimplin', clear, 
Where Bruce'' ance rul'd the martial ranks, 

An' shook his Carrick spear, 
Some merry, friendly, countra folks. 

Together did convene. 
To burn their nits, an' pou their stocks, 

An' haud their Halloween 

Fu' blythe that night. 



1 la thought to be a night when witches, devils, and 
other mischief-making beings are all abroad on their 
baneful midnight errands: particularly those aerial people, 
the Fairies, are said on that night to hold a grand anni- 
versary. 

2 Certain ittle, romantic, rocky green hills, .n the 
Baighbourhood of the ancient seat of the Earls of Cassihs. 

3 A noted cavern near Colean-house, called the Cove 
of Colean which, as well as Cassilis Downans, is famed 
m country story for being a favourite haunt of fairies. 

* Th« famous family of that flame, the ancestors of 
Robert, the great deliverer of his country, were Earls 
of Carrick. 

6 The first cersmony of Halloween is, pulling each a 
itock, or plant of kail. They must go out, hand-in-hand, 
Vith eyes shut, and pull the first they meet with : its 
being big or little, straight or crooked, is prophetic of 
lh« size and shape of the grand object of all their spells — 
Iha h isbund or wife. If any yird, or earth, stick to the 



The lasses feat, an' cleanly neat, 

Mair braw than when they're fine ; 
Their faces blythe, fu' sweetly kythe, 

Hearts leal, an' warm, an' kin -, 
The lads sae trig, wi' wooer babs, 

Weel knotted on their garten, 
Some unco blate, an' some wi' gabs, 

Gar lasses' hearts gang startin' 

Whiles fast^at night 

Then, first and foremost, thro' the kail. 

Their stocks^ maun a' be sought ance; 
They steek their een, an' graip an' wale, 

For muckle anes an' straught anes. 
Poor hav'rel Will fell aff the drift, 

An' wander'd through the bow-kail. 
An' pou't, for want o' better shift, 

A runt was like a sow-tail, 

Sae bow't that night. 

Then, straught or crooked, yird or nane, 

They roar an' cry a' throu'ther ; 
The vera wee-things, todlin', rin 

Wi' stocks out-owre their shouther ; 
An' gif the custoc's sweet or sour, 

Wi' joctelegs they taste them; 
Syne coziely, aboon the door, 

Wi' cannie care, they've placed them 
To lie that night. 

The lasses staw frae mang them a' 

To pou their stalks o' corn ;^ 
But Rab slips out, an' jinks about, 

Behint the muckle thorn : 
He grippet Nelly hard an' fast ; 

Loud skirl'd a' the lasses ; 
But her tap-pickle maist was lost. 

When kiuttlin' in the fause-house'' 

Wi' him that night. 

root, that is tocher, or fortune ; and the taste of the custoc, 
that is, the heart of the stem, is indicative of the natural 
temper and disposition. Lastly, the stems, or, to giv« 
them their ordinary appellation, the runts, are placed 
somewhere above the head of tlie door ; and the Christiaa 
names of the people whom chance brings into the hoaao 
are, according to the priority of placing the runts, the 
names in question. 

6 They go to the barn-yard, and pull each at three 
several times, a stalk of oats. If the third stalk wantg 
the top-pickle, that is, the grain at the top of the stalk, 
the party in question will come to the marriage-bed any- 
thing but a maid. 

7 When the corn is in a doubtful state, by being toe 
green or wet, the stack-buikler, by means of old timber, 
&c., makes a large apartment in his stack, witli an open 
ing in the side which is fnirest exposed to the wind : thii 
he calls afause-house. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. flS 


The auld guidwife's weel hoordet nits' 


An' darklins graipit for the banks, 


Are round an' round divided, 


And in the blue-clue^ throvfs then, 


An' monie lads' an' lasses' fates 


Right fear't tLat aight 


Are there that night decided : 




Some kindle, couthie, side by side. 


An' ay she win't, an' ay she swat, 


An' burn thegither trimly ; 


I wat she made nae jaukin' ; 


Some start awa' wi' saucy pride, 


'Till something held within the pat. 


And jump out-owre the chimlie 


Guid L— d ! but she was quaukin' ' 


Fu' high that night. 


But whether 'twas the Deil himsel', 




Or whether 'twas a bauk-en', 


Jean slips in twa wi' teniie e'e ; 


Or whether it was Andrew Bell, 


Wha 'twas, she wadna tell ; 


She did na wait on talkin' 


But this is Jock, an' this is me. 


To spier that night. 


She says in to hersel' : 




He bleez'd owre her, an' she owre him, 


Wee Jenny to her grannie says. 


As they wad never mair part ; 


"Will ye go wi' me, grannie! 


'Till, fuff! he started up the lum. 


I'll eat the apples at the glass. 


An' Jean l^d e'en a sair heart 


I gat frae uncle Johnnie :" 


To see't that night. 


She fulF't her pipe wi' sic a lunt. 


- 


In wrath she was sae vap'rin', 


Poor Willie, wi' his bow-kail runt, 


She notic't na, an aizle brunt 


Was brunt wi' primsie Mallie ; 


Her braw new worset apron 


An' Mallie, nae doubt, took the drunt, 


Out thro' that nifht 


To be compar'd to Willie ; 




Mall's nit lap out wi' pridefu' fling. 


" Ye little skelpie-limraer's face ! 


An' her ain fit it brunt it ; 


1 daur you try sic sportin'. 


While Willie lap, and swoor, by jing, 


As seek the foul Thief onie place. 


'TwaiB just the way he wanted 


For him to spae your fortune : 


To be that night. 


Nae doubt but ye may get a sight I 




Great cause ye hae to fear it ; 


Nell had the fause-house in her min', 


For monie a ane has gotten a fright. 


She pits hersel an' Eob in ; 


An' liv'd an' died deleeret 


In loving bleeze they sweetly join. 


On sic a night 


'Till white in ase they're sobbin' ; 




Nell's heart was dancin' at the view, 


" Ae hairst afore the Sherra-moor, 


She whisper'd Rob to leuk for't : 


I mind't as weel's yestreen, 


Rob, stowlins, prie'd her bonie mou', 


I was a gilpey then, I'm sure 


Fu' cozie in the neuk for't. 


• I was na past fifteen : 


Unseen that night. 


The simmer had been cauld an' wat. 




An' stuflF was unco green ; 


Rut Merran sat behint their backs, 


An' ay a rantin' kirn we gat, 


Her thoughts on Andrew Bell ; 


An' just on Halloween 


She lea'es them gashin' at their cracks, 


It fell that night. 


And slips out by hersel' : 




She through the yard the nearest taks, 


"Our stibble-rig was Rab M'Oraen, 


An' to the kiln she goes then, 


A clever, sturdy fellow : 


1 Burning the nuts is a famous charm. They name the 


latter end, something will hold the tb'9at . lemand " whs 


'ad and lass to each particular nut, as they lay them in 


bauds?" I.e. who holds? ananswei r.., he returned frow 


the fire, and according as they burn quietly together, or 


the kiln-pot, naming the Christian *nd surnrime of yu-dt 


start from beside one another, the course and issue of the 


future spouse. 


courtship will be. 


3 Take a candle, and go alone to a looking-glass ; eat 


2 Whoever would, with success, try this spell, must 


an apple before it, and some traditions say, you shoulfl 


strictly observe these directions: Steal out, all alone, to 


comb your hair all the time ; the face of your conjugal 


.ne Win, and, darkling, throw into the pot a 3lue of blue 


companion, to be, will be seen in the glass, as if peeping 


fam; wind it in a cine off the old one; and towards the 


over vour shoulder. 



94 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



He's sin gat Eppie Sim wi' wean, 

That liv'd in Achmacalla : 
He gat hemp-seed,' I mind it weel, 

And he made unco light o't ; 
But monie a day was by himsel', 

Ho was sae sairly frighted 

That vera night." 

Iherfl up gat fechtin' Jamie Fleck, 

An' he swoor by his conscience. 
That he could saw hemp-seed a peck ; 

For it was a' but nonsense ; 
The auld guidman raught down the pock, 

An' out a' handfu' gied him ; 
Syne bad him slip frae 'mang the folk, 

Sometime when nae ane see'd him, 

An' try't that night. 

He marches thro' amang the stacks, 

Tho' he was something sturtin ; 
The graip he for a harrow taks, 

An' haurls at his curpin ; 
-An' ev'ry now an' then he says, 

" Hemp-seed, I saw thee. 
An' her that is to be my lass, 

Come after me, an' draw thee 

As fast that night." 

He whistl'd up Lord Lennox' march. 

To keep his courage cheery ; 
Altho' his hair began to arch. 

He was sae fley'd an' eerie ; 
'Till presently he hears a squeak, 

An' then a grane an' gruntle ; 
He by his shouther gae a keek. 

An' tumbl'd wi' a wintle 

Out-owre that night. 

He roar'd a horrid murder-shout, 

In dreadfu' desperation ! 
An' young an' auld cam rinnin' out. 

An' hear the sad narration ; 



Steal out unperceived, and sow a handful of nemp- 
ised, harrowing it with anything you can conveniently 
■Jraw after you. Repeat, now and then, "Hemp-seed, I 
wv Jiee; hemp-seed, I saw thee; and him (or her) that 
U- o be my true love, come after me and pou thee." 
Look over your left shoulder, and you will see the appear- 
ance of the person invoked, in the attitude of pulling 
tiemp. Some traditions say, " Come after me, ard shaw 
thee," that is, show thyself; in which case it simply 
appears. Others omit the harrowing, and say, "Come 
lifter me, and harrow thee." 

2 This charm must likewise be pei'formed, unperceived, 
Mid alone. You go to the barn, and open both doors, 
taking them off the hinges, if possible ; for there is danger 



He swoor *twas hilchin Jean M'Craw, 
Or crouchie Merran Humphie, 

'Till, stop ! she trotted thro' them a' ; 
An' wha was it but Grumphie 

Asteer that light ! 

Meg fain wad to the barn hae gaen, 

To win three wechts o' naething ;' 
But for to meet the deil her lane, 

She pat but little faith in : 
She gies the herd a pickle nits, 

An' twa red cheekit apples, 
To watch, while for the barn she sets, 

In hopes to see Tarn Kipples 

That vera nigbt. 

She turns the key wi' cannie thraw, 

An' owre the threshold ventures ; 
But first on Sawnie gies a ca', 

Syne bauldly in she enters : 
A ratton rattled up the wa'. 

An' she cried, L — d preserve her 1 
An' ran thro' midden-hole an' a'. 

An' pray'd wi' zeal and fervour, 

Fu' fast that night. 

They hoy't out Will, wi sair advice , 

They hecht him some fine braw ane , 
It chanc'd the stack he faddom't thrice,* 

Was timmer-propt for thrawin' ; 
He taks a swirlie auld moss-oak. 

For some black, grousome carlin ; 
An' loot a winze, an' drew a stroke, 

'Till skin in blypes cam haurlin' 

Aff's nieves that night 

A wanton widow Leezie was. 

As canty as a kittlin ; 
But, och ! that night, amang the shawB, 

She got a fearfu' settlin' '. 
She thro' the whins, an' by the cairn, 

An' owre the hill gaed scrievin. 



that the being about to appear may shut the doo'S aiiJ 
do you some mischief. Then take that instrument ised 
in winnowing the corn, which, in our country dialect, w« 
call a wecht ; and go through all the attHuOes '.'f letting 
do\vn corn against the wind. Repeat it three times ; and 
the third time, an apparition will pass through the 
barn, in at the windy door, and out at the other, having 
both the figure in question, and the appearance or retinul 
marking the employment or station in life. 

3 Take an opportunity of going unnoticed, to a bean 
stack, and fathom it three times round. The last fathOB 
of the last time, you will catch in your arms the appear 
ance of your future conjugal yoke-fellow. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



95 



Whare three lairds' lands met at a burn,* 
To dip her left sark-sleeve in, 

Was bent that night. 

Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays, 

As through the glen it -wimpl't ; 
Whyles round a rocky scaur it strays, 

Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't ; 
WhylefS glitter'd to the nightly rays, 

Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle ; 
Whyles cookit underneath the braes, 

Below the spreading hazel, 

Unseen that night. 

Amang the brackens oh the brae. 

Between her an' the moon. 
The deil, or else an outler quey, 

Gat up an' gae a croon : 
Poor Leezie's heart maist lap the hool ! 

Near lav'rock-height she jumpit, 
But mist a fit, an' in the pool 

Out-owre the lugs she plumpit, 

Wi' a plunge that night. 

in order, on the clean hearth-stane. 

The luggies three^ are ranged, 
And ev'ry time great care is ta'en, 

To see them duly changed : 
Auld uncle John, wha wedlock's joys 

Sin Mar's-year did desire, 
Because he gat the toom-dish thrice. 

He heav'd them on the fife 

In wrath that night. 

Wi' merry sangs, and friendly cracks, 

I wat they did na weary ; 
An' unco tales, an' funnie jokes, 

Their sports were cheap an' cheery ; 
Till butter'd so'nss wi' fragrant lunt. 

Set a' their gabs a-steerin' ; 
Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt, 

They parted aff careerin' 

Fu' blythe that night. 



\ ou go out, one or more, for this is a social spell, to 
( south running spring or rivulet, where " three lairds' 
ands meet," and dip your left shirt-sleeve. ^ Go to bed 
£ sight of a fire, and hang your wet sleeve before it to 
dry. Lie awake: and, some time near midnight, an 
apparition having the exact figure of the grand object in 
Ruestion, will come and turn the sleeve, as if to dry the 

ther side of it. 

2 Take tl ree dishes : put clean water in one, foul water 
A another, and leave the third ampty ; bli idfold a person 



XXVI. 

MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. 



• [The origin of this fine poem is alludel tc Iv tv Z.B is 

one of his letters to Mrs. Dunlop : " I had aa o.Jd gTtird 
uncle with whom my mother lived in her girlish years: 
the good old man was long blind ere he died, during which 
time his highest enjoyment was to sit and cry, while my 
mother would sing the simple old song of ' The Life and 
Age of Man.' " From that truly venerable woman, long 
after the death of her distinguished son, Cromek, in col- 
lecting the Relicjues, obtained a copy by recitation of the 
older strain. Though the tone and sentiment coincide 
closely with " Man was made to Mourn," I agree with 
Lockhart, that Burns wrote it in obedience to his owa 
habitual feelings.] 

When chill November's surly blast 

Made fields and forests bare. 
One ev'ning as I wandered forth 

Along the banks of Ayr, 
I spy'd a man whose aged step 

Seem'd weary, worn with care ; 
His face was furrow'd o'er with years, 

And hoary was his hair. 

♦'Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou?" 

Began the rev'rend sage ; 
•' Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, 

Or youthful pleasure's rage ' 
Or haply, prest with cares and woes. 

Too soon thou hast began 
To wander forth, with me to mourn 

The miseries of man. 

" The sun that overhangs yon moors. 

Out-spreading far and wide. 
Where hundreds labour to support 

A haughty lordling's pride : 
I've seen yon weary winter-sun 

Twice forty times return, 
And ev'ry time has added proofs 

That man was made to mourn 

*' man ! while in thy early years, 
How prodigal of time ! 



and lead him to the hearth where the dishes are rasfWt 
he (or she) dips the left hand : if by chance in the cleu 
water, the future husband oj wife will come to the ba. 
of matrimony a maid ; if in the foul, a widow; if in tn» 
empty dish, it foretells, with equal certainty, no marriag* 
at all. It is repeated three times, and every time the 
arrangement of the dishes is altered. 

3 Sowens, with 1 utter insteid of milk to them, is always 
the Halloween svppei 



ae THE POETICAL WORKS 


Misspending all thy precious hours, 


This partial view of human-kind 


Thy glorious youthful prime ! 


Is surely not the best ! 


Alternate follies take the sway; 


The poor, oppressed, honest man 


Licentious passions burn ; 


Had never, sure, been born, 


Wh'ch tenfold force gives nature's law 


Had there not been some recompense 


That man was made to mourn. ' 


■To comfort those that mourn! 


"Look not alone on youthful prime, 


" Death! the poor man's dearest friend— 


Or manhood's active might ; 


The kindest and the best ! 


Man then is useful to his kind, 


Welcome the hour, my aged limbs 


Supported in his right : 


Are laid with thee at rest ! 


But see him on the edge of life, 


The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow, 


With cares and sorrows worn; 


From pomp and pleasure torn ! 


Then age and want — oh! ill-match'd pair; — 


But, oh ! a blest relief to those 


Show man was made to mourn. 


That weary-laden mourn." 


*' A few seem favourites of fate. 
In pleasure's lap carest : 






Yet, think not all the rich and great 


• 


Are likewise truly blest. 




But, oh ! what crowds in every land. 


xxvir. 


All wretched and forlorn ! 


TO RUIN. 


Thro' weary life this lesson learn — 




That man was made to mourn. 


["I have been," says Burns, in his common-placti 




book, "taking apeep through, as Young finely says, 




' The dark postern of time long elapsed.' 'Twas a 


*=Many and sharp the num'rous ills 


rueful prospect ! What a tissue of thoughtlessness, 


Inwoven with our frame ! 


weakness, and folly ! my life reminded me of a rumed 


More pointed still we make ourselves, 


temple. What strength, what proportion in some parts 


Regret, remorse, and shame ! 


what unsightly gaps, what prostrate ruins in others !" 
Th« fragment, To Ruin, seems to have had its origin in 


And man, whose heaven-erected face 


moments such as these. J 


The smiles of love adorn, 


I. 


Man's inhumanity to man 


Makes countless thousands mourn ! 


All hail I inexorable lord ! 




At whose destruction-breathing word. 


"See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight. 


The mightiest empires fall ! 


So abject, mean, and vile. 


Thy cruel, woe-delighted train, 


^Vho begs a brother of the earth 


The ministers of grief and pain. 


To give him leave to toil ; 


A sullen welcome, all ! 


And see his lordly fellow-worm 


With stern-resolv'd, despairing eye. 


The poor petition spurn, 


I see each aimed dart ; 


Unmindful, though a weeping wife 


For one has cut my dearest tie. 


And helpless offspring mourn. 


And quivers in my heart. 




Then low'ring and pouring. 


"If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave — 


The storm no more I dread ; 


By Nature's law design'd — • 


Though thick'ning and black'ning, 


Why was an independent wish 


Round my devoted head. 


E'er planted in my mind? 




If not, why am I subject to 


II. 


His cruelty or scorn ? 


And thou grim pow'r, by life abhorr'd» 


Or why has man the will and power 


While life a pleasure can afford, 


To make his fellow mourn ? 


Oh! bear a wretch's prayer! 




No more I shrink appall'd, afraid ; 


" Tet, let not this too much, my son. 


I court, I beg thy friendly aid. 


Disturb thy youthful breast ; 


To close this scene of care I 



^Vhen shall my soul, in silent peace, 

Resign life's Joyless day ; 
My weary hearf. its throbbings cease, 
Cold^'mould'ring in the clay ? 
No fear more, no tear mOre, 
To stain my lifeless face ; 
■'Snclasped, and grasped 
Within thy cold embrace ! 



JOHN GOUDIE OF KILMARNOCK. 

ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS ESSAYS. 

tThis burn>»jr commentary, by Burns, on the Essays 
«f Goudie in t'lfl Macgill controversy, was first published 
by Stewart, with the Jolly Beggars, in 1801 ; it is akin in 
life and spirit to Holy Willie's Prayer ; and may be cited 
Ra a sar.ple of the wit and the force which the poet 

'lught to the great, but now forgotten, controversy of 

^ West.] 

GoTJDiE ! terror of the Whigs, 

Dread of black coats and rev'rend wigs, 

Sour Bigotry, on her last legs, 

Girnin', looks back, 
Wishin' the ten Egyptian plagues • 

Wad seize you quick. 

Poor gapin', glowrin' Superstition, 
Waes me ! she's in a sad condition : 
Fie ! bring Black Jock, her state physician, 

To see her water : 
41as ! there's ground o' great suspicion 

She'll ne'er get better. 

Arild Orthodoxy lang did grapple, 
But now she's got an unco ripple; 
Haste, gis her name up i' the chapel, 

Nigh unto death ; 
See, hoTT she fetches at the thrapple, 

An' gasps for breath. 

Enthusiasm's past redemption, 

Gaon in a gallopin' consumption, 

Not a' the quacks, wi' a' their gumption. 

Will ever mend her. 
Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption 

Death soon will end her. 

'Tis you and Taylor' are the chief, 
Wha are to blame for this mischief, 

1 Dr. Taylor, of Norwic . 



But gin the Lord's ain focks gat leave, 
A toom tar-barrei, 

An' twa red peats wad send relief. 

An' end the quarrel 



J. LAPRAIR. 

AN OLD SCOTTISH BAKD. 

April 1st, 1785. 
(FIKST EPISTLE.) 

[" The epistle to John Lapvaik," says Gilbert Hums, 
" was produced exactly on the occasion descrioed by the 
author. Rocking is a term derived from primi ;ive times, 
when our country-women employed their spare hours in 
spinning on the roke or distaff. This simple instrument 
is a very portable one; and well fitted to the social incli 
nation of meeting in a neighbour's house ; hence th« 
phrase of going a rocking, or with the roke. As the 
connexion the phrase had with the implement vras for 
gotten when the roke gave place to the spinning-wheel. 
the phrase came to be used by both sexes on social oc-ia 
sions, and men talk of going- with the;.- roljes as well oi 
women."] 

While briers an' woodbines budding green, 
An' paitricks scraichin' loud at e'en, 
An' morning poussie whidden seen, 

Inspire my muse, 
This freedom in an unknown frien' 

I pray excuse. 

On Fasten-een we had a rockin'. 

To ca' the crack and weave our stockin' , 

And there wa.si muckle fun an' jokiEi', 

Ye need na doubt ; 
At length we had a hearty yokin' 

At sang about. 

There was ae sang, amang the rest, 
Aboon them a' it pleas'd me best. 
That some kind huateand had addrest 

To some sweet wife ; 
It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast, 

A' to the life. 

I've scarce heard aught describ'd sae wee*. 
What gen'rous manly bosoms feel, 
Thought I, " Can this be Pope or Steele, 

Or Beattie's wark ?" 
They told me 'twas an odd kind chiel 

About Muirkirk 



r»8 THE POFTTiJAL ^'OKKS 


It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't. 


Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire ! 


And sae about him there I spier't, 


That's a' the learning I desire ; 


Then a' that ken't him roand declar'd 


Then though I drudge thro' dub an' mire 


He had injine, 


At pleugh or cart, 


That, nai c excell'd it, few cam near't, 


My muse, though hamely in attire, 


It was sae fine 


May touch the heart. 


That, set him to a pint of ale, v 


for a spunk o' Allan's glee, 


An' cither douce or merry tale. 


Or Fergusson's, the bauld and siee. 


Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel', 


Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be, 


Or witty catches, 


If I can hit it I 


'Tween Inverness and Tiviotdale, 


That would be lear eneugh for me, 


He had few matches. 


If I could get it 


Then up I gat, an' swoor an aith, 


Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow, 


Tho' I should pawn my pleugh and graith. 


Tho' real friends, I b-'lieve, are few, 


{)r die a cadger pownie's death 


Yet, if your catalogue be fou, 


At some dyke-back, 


I's^ no insist. 


A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith 


But gif ye want ae friend that's true — 


To hear your crack. 


I'm on your list. 


But, first an' foremost, I should tell, 


I winna blaw about mysel ; 


Amaist as soon as I could spell. 


As ill I like my fauts to tell ; 


I to the crambo-jingle fell, 


But friends an' folk that wish me well, 


Tho' rude an' rough, 


They sometimes rocse mc 


Yet crooning to a body's sel', 


Tho' I maun own, as monie still 


Does weel eneugh. 


" As far abuse me. 


I am nae poet in a sense. 


Tare's ae wee faut they whiles lay to me. 


But just a rhymer, like, by chance, 


I like the lasses — Gude forgie me ! 


An' hae to learning nae pretence, 


For monie a plack they wheedle frae me, 


Yet what the matter? 


At dance or fair ; 


Whene'er my Muse does on me glance, 


May be some ither thing they gie me 


I jingle at her. 


They weel can spare 


four critic-folk may cock their nose, 


But Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair ; 


And say, " How can you e'er propose, 


I should be proud to meet you there ! 


You, wha ken hardly verse frae prose, 


We'se gie ae night's discharge to care, 


To mak a sang?" 


If we forgather, 


Bat; by youi leaves, my learned foes. 


An' hae a swap o' rhymin'-ware 


Ye're may-be wrang. 


Wi' ane anither. 


What's a' your jargon o' your schools, 


The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clatter, 


r )ur Latin names for horns an' stools ; 


An' kirsen him wi' reekin' water , 


[t honest nature made you fools, 


Syne we'll sit down an' tak our whitter, 


What sairs your grammars ? 


To cheer our heart ; 


Ye'd better taen up spades and shools, 


An' faith, we'se be acquainted better, 


Or knappin-hammers. 


Before we part 


A set 0' dull, conceited hashes, 


Awa, ye selfish, warly race, 


Confuse their brains in college classes ! 


Wha think that havins, sense, an grace. 


They gang in stirks and come out asses, 


Ev'n love an' friendship, should give plac» 


Plain truth to speak ; 


To catch-the-plack ' 


in' fvve they think to climb Parnassus 


I dinra like to see your face. 


By dint o' Greek! 


Nor hear your crack. 



OF R015ERT BURNS. . 9S 


But ye whom social pleasure charms, 


Her dowff excuses pat me mad : 


Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms, 


"Conscience," says I, "ye thowless jadl 


Who hold your being on the terms, 


I'll write, an' that a hearty blaud. 


' "Each aid the others," 


This vera nigh^ 


noma to my bowl, come to my arms. 


So dinna ye afifront your trade, 


, My friends, my brothers ! 


But rhyme it right. 


Bat, to conclude my lang epistle, 


" Shall bauld Lapraik, the king 0' hearts, 


As my auld pen's worn to the grissle ; 


Tho' mankind were a pack 0' cartes. 


Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle. 


Roose you sae weel for your deserts, 


Who am, most fervent, 


In terms sae friendly, 


Wliiie I can either sing or whissle. 


Yet ye'U neglect to show your parts, 


Your friend and servant. 


An' thank him kindly J' 




Sae I gat paper in a blink 




An' down gaed stumpie in the ink: 






Quoth I, " Before I sleep a wink, 




I vow I'll close it ; 


XXX. 


An' if ye winna mak it clink, 


TO 


By Jove I'll prose it!" 


J. LAPRAIK. 


Sae I've begun to scrawl, but whether 


(second epistle.) 


In rhyme or prose, or baith thegither, 


[The John Lapraik to whom these epistles are addressed 


Or some hotch-potch that's rightly neither, 


lived at Dalfram in the neighbourhood of Muirkirk, 


Let time mak proof; 


. knd was a rustic worsliipper of the Muse : he unluckily, 


But I shall scribble down some blether 


Bowever, involved himself in that Western bubble, the 


Just clean aff-loof. 


Ayr Bank, and consoled himself -by composing in his 




distress that song which moved the heart of Burns, 
neginning 


My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' carp 


The' fortune use you hard an' sharp ; 
Come, kittle up your moorland-harp 

Wi' gleesome touch 1 


" When I npon thy bosom lean." 
He afterwards published a volume of verse, of a quality 
which proved that the inspiration in his song of domestic 


<so row vras no settled power of sou. .] 


Ne'er mind how fortune waft an' warp ; 


- 


She's but a b-tch. 


April 2lst, 1785. 




While new-ca'd ky, rowte at the stake, 


She's gien me monie a jirt an' fleg, 


An' pownies reek in pleugh or braik, 


Sin' I could striddle owre a rig ; 


This hour on e'enin's edge I take 


But, by the L— d, tho' I should beg 


To own I'm debtor, 


Wi' lyart pow. 


To honest-hearted, auld Lapraik, 


I'll laugh, an' sing, an' shake my leg, 


For his kind letter. 


As lang's I.dow ! 


Forjesket sair, wi' weary legs, 


Now comes the sax an' twentieth simm»» 


Rattlin' the corn out-owre the rigs, 


I've seen the bud upo' the timmer, 


Or dealing thro' amang the naigs 


Still persecuted by the limmer 


Their ten hours' bite. 


Frae year to year , 


M7 awkart muse sair pleads and begs. 


But yet despite the kittle kimmer. 


I would na write. 


I, Rob, am here. 


The tapetless ramfeezl'd hizzie, 


Do ye envy the city gent. 


She's saft at best, and something lazy. 


Behint a kist to lie and sklent, 


Quo' she, "Ye ken, we've been sae busy. 


Or purse-proud, big wi' cent, per cent. 


This month' an' mair. 


And muckle wame 


That trouth my head is grown right dizzie, 


In some bit brugh to represent 


An' something sair." 


A bailie's name ' 



100 



THE POETICAL WOKKS 



Or is't the paughty, feudal Thane, 
Wi' ruffl'd sark ae' glancing cane, 
Wha thinks him? ef lae sheep-shank bane, 

But lordly stalks, 
While caps and bonnets aff are taen, 

As by he walks ! 

'*0 Thou wha gies us each guid gift! 

Gifi me o* wit an' sense a lift, 

Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift, 

Thro' Scotland wide ; 
Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift, 

In a' their pride !" 

Were this the charter of our state, 
"On pain' o' hell be rich an' great," 
Damnation th^rj ^t^pi^ld '-^ "ur fata, 

ana r«3nead ; 
But, thanks to Heav'n, that's *,,. the gate 
We learn our cveed. 

For thus the royal mandate ran. 
When first the hiiman race began, 
" The social, friendly, honest man, 

Whate'er he be, 
'Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan. 

An' none but he !" 

mandate, glorious and divine ! 
The followers o' the ragged Nine, 
Poor thoughtless devils ! yet may shine 

In glorious light, 
While sordid sons o' Mammon's line 

Are dark as night. 

Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, an' growl, 
Their worthless nievfu' of a soul 
May in some future carcase howl 

The forest's fright ; 
Or in some day-detesting owl 

May shun the light. 

Then may Lapraik and Burns arise. 
To reach their native kindred skies, 
Aud sing their pleasures, hopes, an' joys, 

In some mild sphere, 
Still closer knit in friendship's ties 

Each passing year I 



SXXl. 



J. LAPRAIit. 

(tHXRD EPISTZ.B) 

[I have heard one of our most. <^stir<giiijhed Englisi 
poets recite with a sort of ecstasy some of the verses of 
these epistles, and praise the ease of the language an« 
the happiness of the thoughts. He averred, however 
that the poet, when pinched for a w^ord, hesitated not t<i 
coin one, and instanced, " tapetless," "ramfeezled," ana 
" forjesket," as intrusions in our dialect. These word* 
seem indeed, to some Scotchmen, strange and uncouth, 
but they are true words of the west.] 

Sept. 13th, 1785. 
Gtjid speed an' furder to you, Johnny, 
Guid health, ha'a han's, an' weather bonny; 
Now when ye're aickan down fu' canny 

The staff o' bread, 
May ye ne'er want a stoup o' bran'y 

To clear your head. 

May Boreas never thresh your rigs, 
Nor kick your rickles aff their legs, 
Sendin' the stuff o'er muirs an' haggs 

Like drivin' wrack ; 
But may the tapmast grain that wags 

Come to the sack. 

I'm bizzie too, an' ^kelpin' at it, 

But bitter, daudin' showers hae wat it, 

Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat it 

Wi' muckle wark, 
An' took my jocteleg an' whatt it. 

Like ony dark. 

It's now twa month that I'm your debtor 
For your braw, namele'^ s, dateless letter, 
A ' isin' me for harsh ill nature 

On holy men, 
While deil a hair yoursel' ye're better, 

But mair profane- 
But let the kirk-folk ring their bells, 
Let's sing about our noble sel's ; 
We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills 

To help, or roose us, 
But browster wives an' whiskey stills, • 

They are the muses. 

Four friendship. Sir, I winna quat it. 

An' if ye mak' objections at it. 

Then han' in nieve some day we'll knot itj 

An' witness take, 
An' when wi' Usquabae we've wat it 

It winna break 



OF ROBEET Bl HNS. 



IDI 



But if the beast and branks be spar'd 
Till kye be gaun without the herd, 
An' a' the vittel in the yard, 

An' theekit right, 
I meai your ingle-side to guard 

Ae winter night. 

Then muse-inspirin' aqua-vitae 

Shall make us baith sae blythe an' witty, 

Till ye forget ye're auld an' gatty, 

An' be as canty, 
As ye were nine year less than thretty. 

Sweet ane an' twenty 1 

But stocks are cowpet wi' the blast. 
An' now the sin keeks in the west, 
Then I maun rin amang the rest 

An' quat my chanter ; 
'^ae I subscribe myself in haste, 

Yours, E.ab the Ranter 



WILLIAM SIMPSON, 

OCHILTREE. 

[The person to whom this epistle is addressed, av^ 
lohoolmaster of Ochiltree, and aft«rwarda of '.ev l.a- 
iiark: he was a writer of verses toe, lik<- iiap" more of 
ftie poet's comrades J — of verias w^ich '--ose not above 
Sihe barren level of med'ocrity "line of his poems," says 
Chambers, "-yas a lansfh^uie elegy on the death of the 
Emperor Paul." .a nis verses to Burns, under "ihe name 
if a Tailor, there' is nothing to laugh at, though they are 
mteuded to be laughable as well as monitory.] 

May, 1785. 
I QAT your letter, winsome Willie ; 
Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie; 
The' I maun say't, I wad be silly, 

An' unco vain. 
Should I believe, my coaxin' billie, 

Tour flatterin' strain. 

Sut I'se believe ye kindly meant it, 
I sud be laith to think ye hinted 
Ironic satire, sidelins sklented 

On my poor Musie ; 
Tho' in sic phraisin' terms ye've penn'd it, 

I scarce excuse ye. 

My senoes wad be in a creel, 
Bhouid I ^ut dare a hope to spf «1, 



Wi' Allan, or wi' *ilbertfield, 

The braes o' fame; 

Or Fergusson, the writer chiel, 

A deathless name. 

(0 Fergusson! .thy glorious part* 

111 suited law's dry, musty arts ! 

My curse upon your whunstane hearts, 

Ye Enbrugh gentry ! 
The tythe o' what ye waste at cartes 

Wad stow'd his p^Jitry ! 

Yet when a tale comes i' my head, 

Or lasses gie my heart a screed. 

As whiles they're like to be my d(y.d 

(0 s?^d fHse».se ') 
I kittle up my rustic reec?, 

It jip"? me ease. 

Auld Coila, new, 'siav fidge fu' fain, 

She's gotte:/! piet" o' her ain, 

Chiels wh? thpir chanters winna hain, 

But tune their lays, 
TiU ech ■ es »/ resound again 

Her weel-simg praisa 

3%^ ;,oet thought her worth his while, 
fo set her name in measur'd stile ; 
rihe lay like some unkenn'd-of isle 

Beside New-Holland, 
Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil 

Besouth Magellan. 

Ramsay an' famous p'ergusson 
Gied Forth and Tay a lift aboon ; 
Yarrow an' Tweed, to monie a tune, 

Owre Scotland rings, 
While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Doon, 

Nae body sings. 

Th' Ilissus, Tiber, Thames, an' Seine, 
Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' line * 
But, Willie, set your fit to mine. 

An' cock your orest, 
We'll gar our streams an' burnies shiae 

Up wi' the best. 

We'll sing auld Coila's plains an' fells, 
Her moor's red-brown wi' heather bells, 
Her banks an' braes, her dens an' dells, 

Where glorious Wallao* 
Aft bure the gree, as story tells, 

Frae southron bil .ie«. 



102 



THiQ POETICAL WORKS 



At Wafilace' name, what Sf ottish blood 
But boils up in a spring-tide flood ! 
Oft have our fearless fathers strode 

By Wallace' side, 
sun pressing onward, red-wat shod. 

Or glorious dy'd. 

sweet are Coila's haughs an' woods, 
W'jen Untwhites chant amang the buds, 
And jinkin' hares, in amorous whids 

Their loves enjoy, 
While thro' the braes the cushat croods 

With wailfu' cry ! 

Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me 
When winds rave thro' the naked tree ; 
Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree 

Are hoary gray : 
Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee, 

Dark'ning the day. 

Nature ! a' thy shews an' forms 

To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms ! 

Whether the summer kindly warms, 

Wi' life an' light, 
Or winter howls, in gusty storms. 

The lang, dark night ! 

Th<? muse, nae Poet ever fand her, 
'Till by himsel' he learn'd to wander, 
Adown some trotting burn's meander, 

An' no think lang , 
sweet, 10 stray an' pensive ponder 

A heart-felt sang ! 

The warly race may drudge an' drive, 
Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch an' strive, 
Let me fair Nature's face descrive. 

And I, wi' pleasure. 
Shall let the busy, grumbling hive 

Bum owre their treasure 

Pareweel, my " rhyme-composing brither !" 
We've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither : 
N*w let us lay our heads thegither. 

In love fraternal ; 
May envy wallop in a tether. 

Black fiend, infernal i 

While Highlandmen hate tolls an' taxes ; 
While moorlan' herds like guid fat braxies ; 
While i erra firma, on her axes 

Diurnal turns, 
Count an « friend, in faith an' practice. 

In RoBERi Burns. 



POSTSCRIPT. 

My memory's no worth a preen : 

I had amaist forgotten clean. 

Ye bade me write you what they mean, 

By this New Light, 
'Bout which our herds sae aft hae been, 

Maist like to fight, 

In days when mankind were but callans, 

At grammar, logic, an' sic talents. 

They took nae pains their speech to balance, 

Or rules to gie, 
But spak their thoughts in plain, braid Lallans 

Like you or me. 

In thae auld times, they thought the moon. 
Just like a sark, or pair o' shoon, 
Wore by degrees, 'till her last roon, 

Gaed past their viewing. 
An' shortly after she was done. 

They gat a new on*. 

This past for certain — undisputed ; 
It ne'er cam i' their heads to doubt it, 
'Till chiels gat up an' wad confute it, 

An' ca'd it wrang ; 
An' muckle din there was about it, 

Baith loud an' lang. 

Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk. 
Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk ; 
For 'twas the auld moon turned a neuk, 

An' out o' sight, 
An' backlins-comin', to the leuk, 

She grew mair bright 

This was deny'd, it was aflSrm'd ; 

The herds an' hissels were alarm'd : 

The rev'rend gray -beards rav'd and storui'a 

That beardless laddies 
Should think they better were inform'd 

Than their auld dadJi >t 

Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks ; 
Frae words an' aiths to clours an' nicks. 
An' monie a fallow gat his licks, 

Wi' hearty crunt; 
An' some, to learn them for their tricks. 

Were haug'd •«' brunt 

This game was play'd in monie lands, 
An' Auld Light caddies bure sic hands. 
That, faith, the youngsters took the sands 

^V\' nimble shanks, 
'Till lairds forbade, by strict commands, 

Sic bhiidy pranks 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



I'M 



Bat New Light herds gat sic a cowe, 
I'oVf thought them ruin'd stick-an'-stowe, 
Till now amaist on every knowe, 

Yell find ane plac'd; 
Ar' >ome their New Light fair avow, 

Just quite barefao'd. 

N'ae ioubt the Auld Light flocks are bie<»«ja' , 
Ihei*.' zealous herds are vex'd an' sweatin' : 
Mjsel', I've even seen them greetin' 

Wi' girnin* spitCj 
To hej.i the moon sae sadly lie'd on 

By word an' write 

But shortly they will cowe the loons ; 
Some Auld Light herds in neibor towns 
Are mind't in things thoy ca' balloons, 

To tak a flight. 
An' stay ae month amang the moons 

And see them right. 

Cruid obserration they will gie them : 

An' when the auld moon's gaun to lea'e them, 

The hindmost shaird, they'll fetch it wi' them, 

Just i' their pouch, 
An' when the New Light billies see them, 

I think they'll crouch ! 

Bae, ye observe that a' this clatter 

Is naething but a "moonshine matter;" 

But tho' dull prose-folk Latin splatter 

In logic tulzie, 
I hope we bardies ken some better 

Than mind sic brulzie. 



XXXIII. 

ADDRESS 

TO AN 

ILLEGITIMATE CHILD. 

[This hasty and not verydecorous effusion, was origi- 
Bally entitiec ' The Poet's Weicome ; or, Rab the 
Rn' mar's Address to his Bastard Child." A copy, with 
U»9 more softened, but less expressive title, was 

ai>.iii8d by Stewart, in '1801, and is alluded to by 
6m*^s nimself, in his biographical letter to Moore. 
''Boniu> Setty," the mother of the " sonsie-smirking, 
sJear-boug i: Bess," of the Inventory, lived in Largie- 
Bide : to suf:,>ort this daughter the poet made over the 
copy ight of his works when he proposed to go to the 
WeSt Ir ■■'''^'i- She lived to be a woman, and to marry 
une John BiS.i<jp, overseer at Polkemmet, where she died 

n 1817. It is said she resembled Burns quite as much as 
«n;' Oi- Hie rest of his children.] 
Thou's welcome, wean, mischanter fa' me, 
Tt' ough t: of thee ' r of thy mammy 



Shall ever daunton me, or awe me, 

My sweet wee lady, 

Or if I blush when thou shalt ca' me 
Tit-ta or dadty. 

♦Tee image of my bonny Betty, 

1, fatherly, will kiss and daut thee, 

As dear and near my heart I set thee 

Wi' as gude will 
Aft a' the priests had seen me get thee 

That's out o' hell. 

What tho' they ca' me fornicator, 
An' tease my name in kintry clatter : 
The mair they talk I'm kent the better. 

E'en let them JiB^ ' 
An auld wife's tongue's a feckless mattei 

To gie ane fasb. 

Sweet fruit o' mony a merry dim, 

My funny toil is now a' tint, 

Sin' thou came to the warl asklent, 

Which fools may scoff i» 
In my last plack thy part's be in't 

The better ha'f o't 

An' if thou be what I wad hae thee. 
An' tak the counsel I sail gie thee, 
A lovin' father I'll be to thee. 

If thou be spar'd ; 
Thro' a' thy childish yeais I'll e'e thee, 

An' think't weel war'd. 

Gude grant that thou may ay inherit 
Thy mither's person, grace, an' merit. 
An' thy poor worthless daddy's spirit. 

Without his failins ; 
'Twill please me mair to hear an' see it 

Than stocket maileoe 



XXXIV. 

NATURE'S LAW. 

A POEM HITMBLT INSCRIBED TO G. H. ES(l. 

" Great nature spoke, observant man obey'd." 

Po>» 

[This Poem was -nTitten by Burns at Mossgiei, anu 
" humbly inscribed to Gavin Hamilton, Esq." It ie ssup- 
posed to allude to his intercourse with Jean ATir»>sr, 
with the circumstances of wh'ch he seems to have mad4 
many of his comrades acquainted. These verses wer« 
well known to many of the admirers of the poet, but t\iej 
remained in manuscript till given to the worJd by Si- 
Harris Nicolas, in Pickering's Aldine Edition of th» 
British Poets.] 

Let other heroes boast their scars. 
The marks of sturt and strife ; 



104 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



And other poets sing of wars, 

The plagues of human life ; 
Shame fa' the fun ; wi' sword and gun 

To slap mankind like lumber ! 
I sing his name, and nobler fame, 

Wha multiplies our number. 

tfreat Nature spoke with air benign, 

' Go on, ye human race ! 
I his lower world I you resign; 

Be fruitful and increase. 
The liquid fire of strong desire 

I've pour'd it in each bosom ; 
Here, in this hand, does mankind stand, 

And there, is beauty's blossom." 

The hero of these artless strains, 

A lowly bard was he. 
Who sung his rhymes in Coila's plains 

With meikle mirth an' glee ; 
Kind Nature's care had given his share, 

Large, of the flaming current ; 
And all devout, he never sought 

To stem the sacred torrent. 

He felt the powerful, high behest. 

Thrill vital through and through ; 
A-ud sought a correspondent breast. 

To give obedience due : 
Propitious Powers screen'd the young flowerSj 

From mildews of abortion ; 
And lo ! the bard, a great reward, 

Has got a double portion ! 

Auld cantie Coil may count the day, 

As annual it returns, 
The third of Libra's equal sway, 

That gave another B[urns], 
With future rhymes, an' other times, 

To emulate his sire ; 
To sing auld Coll in nobler style. 

With more poetic fire. 

Ve Powers of peace, and peaceful song, 

Look down with gracious eyes ; 
And bless auld Coila, large and long. 

With multiplying joys : 
Lang may she stand to prop the land, 

The flow'r of ancient nations ; 
lUid B[urns's] spring, her fame to sing. 

Thro' endless generations ! 



TO THE EEV. JOHN M'MATH. 

[Poor M'Math was at the period of this epistle aeeigt 
ant to Wodrow, minister of Tarbolton : he was a good 
preacher, a moderate rr.an in matters of discipline, antf 
an intimate of the Coilsfield Montgomerys. His d*peii 
dent condition depressed his spirits : he grew dissipi t#<i 
and finally, it is said, enlisted as a common soldier, i k* 
died in a foreign land.] 

Sept. mh, 1785 

While at the stook the shearers cow'r 
To shun the bitter blaudin' show'r, 
Or in gulravage rinnin' scow'r 

To pass the time. 
To you I dedicate the hour 

In idle rhyme. 

My musie, tir'd wi' mony a sonnet 

On gown, an' ban', and douse black bonnet, 

Is grown right eerie now she's done it. 

Lest they should blame her 
An' r'^^^se their holy thunder on it 
. And anathem her. 

I own 'twas rash, an' rather hardy. 
That I, a simple countra bardie, 
Shou'd meddle wi' a pack sae sturdy, 

Wha, if they ken me, 
Can easy, wi' a single wordie, 

Lowse hell upon me. 

But I gae mad at their grimaces, 

Their sighin' cantin' grace-proud faces. 

Their three-mile prayers, and hauf-mile graoft 

Their raxin' conscience, 
Whase greed, revenge, an' pride disgraces, 

Waur nor their nonsense 

There's Gaun,' miska't waur than a beast, 
Wha has mair honour in his breast 
Than mony scores as guid's the priest 

Wha sae abus't him. 
An' may a bard no crack his jest 

What way they've use't him 

See him, the poor man's friend in need, 
The gentleman in word an' deed, 
An' shall his fame an' honour bleed 

By worthless skellums. 
An' not a muse erect her head 

To cowe the blellums / 



Gavin Hamilton, '. 



OF EGBERT BURNS. 



105 



P9pe, had I thy satire's darts 
To gie the rascals their deserts, 
I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts, 

An' tell aloud 
Their jugglin' hocus-pocus arts 

To cheat the crowd 

Qov. knows, I'm no the thing I shou'd be, 
Nor am I even the thing I cou'd be, 
l^at twenty times, I rather wou'd be 

An atheist clean, 
Than under gospel colours hid be 

Just for a screen. 

An honest man may like a glass. 
An honest man may like a lass. 
But mean revenge, an' malice fause 

He'll still disdain, 
* n' then cry zeal for gospel laws. 

Like some we ken. 

They take religion in their mouth ; 
They talk o' mercy, grace, an' truth, 
for what? — to gie their malice skouth 

On some puir wight, 
In' hunt him down, o'er right, an' ruth. 

To ruin straight. 

All haiL Religion ! maid divine ! 
Pardon a muse sae mean as mine. 
Who in her rough imperfect line. 

Thus daurs to name thee ; 
f stigmatize false friends of thine 

Can ne'er defame thee. 

Tho' blotch' d an' foul wi' mony a stain. 

An' far unworthy of thy train, 

With trembling voice I tune my strain 

To join with those, 
Who boldly daur thy cause maintain 

In spite o' foes : 

In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs. 
In 3{'ite of undermining jobs, 
[a spite o' dq,rk banditti stabs 

At worth an' merit, 
'&j scoui*i«e.s, eren wi' holy robes. 

But hellish spirit. 

Ayr ! my def.r, my native ground, 
Within thy presbyterial bound 
A candid lib'ral band is found 

Of public teachers, 
tiS men, as Christians too, renown' d, 

in' manly preachers. 



Sir, in that circle you are nam'd ; 
Sir, in that circle you are fam'd ; 
An' some, by whom your doctrine's blam'd, 

(Which gies you honour,) 
Even Sir, by them your heart's esteem'd, 

An' winning manner 

Pardon this freedom I have ta'en. 
An' if impertinent I've been. 
Impute it not, good Sir, in ane 

Whase heart ne'er wrang'd ye 
But to his utmost would befriend 

Ought that belang'd ye. 



TO A MOUSJS, 



ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOCGH 
NOVEMBER, 1785. 

[This beautiful poem was imagined while the poet wai 
holding the plough, on the farm of Mossgiel : the field ii 
still pointed out : and a man called Blane is still living, 
who says he was gaudsman to the bard at the time, an 
chased the mouse with the plough-pettle, for which he 
was rebuked by his young master, who inquired what 
harm the poor mouse had done him. In the ni*ht tha: 
followed, Burns awoke his gaudsman, who was in tha 
same bed with him, recited the poem as it now stands 
and said, " What think you of our mouse now ?'' 

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, 
0, what a panic's in thy breastie ! 
Thou need na start awa sae hasty, 

Wi' bickering brattle ' 
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, 

Wi' murd'ring pattleJ 

I'm truly sorry man's dominion 
Has broken nature's social union. 
An' justifies that ill opinion. 

Which makes thee startlk 
At me, thy poor earth-born companion, 

An' fellow-mortal! 

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve 5 
What then ? poor beastie, thou maun live I 
A daimen icker in a thrave 

'S a sma' request : 
I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave. 

And never miss't! 

Thy wee bit housie, too, in rujn ; 
Its silly wa's the win's are strewia' ! 



iO« 



THE POEiiCAL WOKKS 



An' naething, now, to big a new ane, 
0' foggage green! 

A.n' bleak December's winds ensuin', 

Baith snell and keen ! 

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, 
An' weary winter comin' fast, 
An' cozie here, beneath the blast, 

^ Thou thought to dwell, 
'Till, crash ! the cruel coulter past 

Out thro' thy cell. 

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, 
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble ! 
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, 

But house or hald, 
To thole the winter's sleety dribble. 

An' cranreuch cauld 1 

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, 
In proving foresight may be vain: 
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men. 

Gang aft a-gley. 
An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain. 

For promis'd joy. 

Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me ! 
The present only toucheth thee : 
But, Och ! I backward cast my e'e. 

On prospects drear I 
An' forward, tho' I canna see, 

I guess an' fear. 



XXXVII. 
SCOTCH DRINK. 

" Gie him strong drink, until he wink, 

That's sinking in despair; 
An' liquor guid to fire his bluid, 

That's prest wi' grief an' care; 
There .et him bouse, an' deep carouse, 

Wi' bumpers flowing o'er, 
Till he forgets his loves or debts 

An' minds his griefs no more." 

Solomon's Proverb, xxxi. 6, 7. 

l" I here enclose you," said Burns, 20 March, 1786, to 
tie friend Kennedy, "my Scotch Drink; I hope some 
tme before we hear the gowk, to have the pleasure of 
icting you at Kilmarnock : when I intend we shall have 
a gill between us, in a mutchkin stoup."] 

Let other poets raise a fracas 

•Bout vine«, an' wines, an' dru'ke-ft Bacchus, 



An' crabbit names and stories wrack ua, 
An' grate our lug, 

I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us. 
In glass or jug. 

0, thou, my Muse ! guid auld Scotch drink: 
Whether thro' wimplin' worms thou jink, 
Oi", richly brown, ream o'er the brink, • 

In glorious faem. 
Inspire me, till I lisp an' wink. 

To sing thy name I 

Let husky wheat the haughs adorn, 
An' aits set up their awnie horn. 
An' pease an' beans, at e'en or morn. 

Perfume the plain, 
Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn, 

Thou king o' "grain 1 

On thee aft Scotland chows her cood. 
In souple scones, the wale o' food! 
Or tumblin' in the boilin' flood 

Wi' kail an' beef; 
But when thou pours thy strong heart's bloo<^ 

There thou shines chief. 



Food fills the wame an' keeps us livin' ; 
Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin' ^ 
When heavy dragg'd wi' pine an' grievin' ; 

But, oil'd by thee. 
The wheels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin,' 

Wi' rattlin' glee. 

Thou clears the head o' doited Lear ; 
Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care ; 
Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair, 

At's weary toil ; 
Thou even brightens dark Despair 

Wi' gloomy smile. 

Aft, clad in massy, siller weed, 
AVi' gentles thou erects thy head; 
Yet humbly kind in time o' need, 

The poor man's win*>. 
His wee drap parritch, or his bread. 

Thou kitchens fine. 

Thou art the life o' public haunts ; 

But thee, what were our fairs an' rants? 

Ev'n godly meetings o' the saunts. 

By thee inspir'd, 
When gaping they besiege the tents, 

Are doubly fir'd. 



OF ROBERT BURNS 10. 


That merry night we get the corn in, 


May gravels round his blather wrencb, 


sweetly then thou reams the horn in 1 


An' gouts torment him inch by inch, 


Or reekin' on a new-year morning 


Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunch 


, In cog or dicker, 


0' sour disdain. 


Aji' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in, 


Out owre a glass o' whiskey punch 


An' gusty sucker ! 


Wi' honest men . 


When Vulcan gies his bellows breath, 


whiskey ! soul o' plays an' pranks ! 


An' ploughmen gather wi' their graith. 


Accept a Bardie's gratefu' thanks! 


rare ! to see thee fizz an' freath 


When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks 


• r th' lugget caup ! 


Are my poor verses! 


Then Burnewin comes on like Death 


Thou comes they rattle i' their ranks 


At ev'ry chap. 


At ither's a— s ! 


i?f ae mercy, then, for airn or steel ; 


Thee, Ferintosh ! sadly lost ! 


The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel. 


Scotland lament frae coast to coast 1 


Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel, 


Now colic grips, an' barkin' hoast, 


The strong forehammer 


May kill us a' ; 


Till block an' stwddie ring an' reel 


For loyal Forbes' charter'd boast. 


Wi' dinsome clamour. 


Is ta'en awa 


When skirlin' weanies see the light. 


Thae curst horse-leeches o' th' Excise, 


Thou maks the gossips clatter bright. 


Wha mak the whiskey stells their prize ! 


■ How fumblin' cuifs their dearies slight; 


Haud up thy han', Deil ! ance, twice, thrice 1 


Wae worth the n^me ! 


There, seize the blinkers! 


Nae howdie gets a social night, 


An' bake them up in brunstane pies 


Or Black frae them. 


For poor d— n'd drinkers 


When neibors anger at a plea. 


Fortune ! if thou'll but gie me still 


An' just as wud as wud can be, 


Hale breeks, a scone, an' whiskey gill, 


How easy can the barley-bree 


An' rowth o' rhyme to rave at will,. 


Cement the quarrel ! 


Tak' a' the rest. 


It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee. 


An' deal't about as thy blind skill 


To taste the barrel. 


Directs thee best. 


(ilake ! that e'er my muse has reason » 
To wyte her countrymen wi' treason ! 






Buf monie daily weet their weason 




Wi' liquors nice, 


XXXVITT. 


An' hardly, in a winter's season, 




E'er spier her price. 


THE author's 


W*9 worth that brandy, burning trash ! 


EARNEST CRY AND PRATER 


Fell source o' mnriie a pain an' brash! 


TO THE 


Twins monie a poor, doylt, druken hash, 


SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVES 


* 0' half his days'; 


IN THIS 


A»' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash 


HOUSE OP COMMONS. 


To her warst faes. 


• 




< Dearest of distillation ! last and best ! — 


Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well; 
Ye chief, to you my tale I tell. 


Pakodt on Miltos 


Poor plackless devils like mysel', 


[" This Poem was written," says Burns, " before tti 


It sets you ill, 
Wi' bitter, iearthfu' wines to mell. 


act anent the Scottish distilleries, of session 1786, fo« 


which Scotland and the author return their most grate 
ful thanks." Befora the passing of this lenieiit act, ai 


Or foreign gill. 


sharp was the law id the North, that some oistiUeiB 



108 THE POETICAL WORKS 


iwlinquished their trade ; the price of barley was affected. 


Ne'er claw your lug, an' fidge your back, 


and Scotland, already exasperated at the refusal of a 


An' hum an' haw ; 


mihtia, for which she was a petitioner, began to handle 
her claymore, and was perhaps only liindered from draw- 


But raise your arm, an' tell your crack 


'ng 't 'iy the act mentioned by the poet. In an early 


Before them a'. • 


ao-pf of the poem, he thus alludes to Colonel Hugh 




Montgomery, afterwards Earl qif Eglinton : — 


Paint Scotland greetin' owre her thrizile, 


" Thee, sodger Hugh, my watchman stented. 


Her mutchkin stoup as toom's a whissle ; 


If bardies e'er are represented. 


An' damn'd excisemen in a bussle. 


I ken if that yere sword were wanted 


Seizin' a stell. 


Ye'd lend yere hand ; 


Triumphant crushin't like a mussel 


But when there's aught to say anent it 
Yere at a stand." 


Or lampit shell. 


The poet was not sure that Montgomery would think 


Then on the tither hand present he.. 


the compliment to his re.3,dy hand an excuse in full for 
the allusion to his unr«ady tongue, and omitted the 


A blackguard smuggler, right behint her, 


Btanza.] 


An' cheek-for-chow, a chuffie vintner. 




CoUeaguing join, 


Ye Irish lords, ye knights an' squires, 


Picking her pouch as bare as winter 


Wha represent our brughs an' shires, 


Of a' kind coin. 


An' doucely manage our affairs 




In Parliament, 


Is there, that bears the name o' Scot, 


To you a simple Bardie's prayers 


But feels his heart's bluid rising hot, 


Are humbly sent. 


To see his poor auld mither's pot 




Thus dting in staves, 


Alas ! my roupet Muse is hearse ! 


An' plunder'd o' her hindmost groat 


Your honours' hearts wi' grief 'twad pierce, 


By gallows knaves T 


To see her sittin' on her a — e 




Low i' the dust, 


Alas ! I'm but a nameless wight, 


An' scriechin' out prosaic verse, 


Trode i'-the mire out o' sight! 


An' like to brust ! 


But could I like Montgomeries fight. 




Or gab like Boswell, 


Tell them wha hae the chief direction, 


There's some sark-necks I wad draw tight, 


Scotland an' me's in great affiction. 


An' tie some hose welL 


E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction 




On aquavitse ; 


God bless your honours, caSi ye see't, 


An' rouse them up to strong conviction. 


The kind, auld, canty carlin greet. 


An' move their pity 


An' no get warmly on your feet, 




An' gar them hear it ! * 


Stand forth, an' tell yon Premier youth. 


An' tell them with a patriot heat, 


The honest, open, naked truth : 


' Ye winna bear it ? 


Tell him o' mine an' Scotland's drouth, 




His servants humble : 


Some o' you nicely ken the laws. 


The muckie devil blaw ye south, 


To round the period an' pause. 


If ye dissemble ! 


An' wi' rhetoric clause on clause 




To mak harangues 


Does ony great man glunch an' gloom ? 


Then echp thro' Saint Stephenis wa's 


Bpeak out, an' never fash your thumb ! 


Auld Scotland's wraiJgA 


Liet posts an' pensions sink or soom 




Wi' them wha grant 'em : 


Dempster, a true blue Scot I'se warran* : 


If honestly they canna come. 


Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran;' 


^ Far better want 'em. 


An' that glib-gabbet Highland baron, 




The Laird o' Graham;* 


ia gath'rin votes you were na slack ; 


An' ane, a chap that's damn'd auldfarrrea, 


Now stand as tightly by your tack ; 


Dundas his name. 


1 Sir Adam Ferguson. 


2 The DHke of Montrose. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



13* 



Erskine, s, spunkie Norland billie ; 
True CamplDells, Frederick au' Hay ; 
An' Livingstone, the bauld Sir '^'Villie: 

An' monie ithers, 
Wliam anld Demosthenes or TuUy 

Might own for brithers. 

Aronse, my hoys ! exei't your mettle, 
To get auld Scotland back her kettle : 
Or faith ! I'll wad my new pleugh-pettle, 

Ye'U see't or lang, 
She'll teach you, wi' a reekin' whittle, 

Anither sang. 

This while she's been in crankous mood, 
Her lost militia fir'd her bluid ; 
(Deil na they never m^iir do guid, 

Play'd her that pliskie !) 
An' now she's like to rin red-wud 

About her whiskey 

An' Ti — d, if ance +h«>y pit her till't, 
Her tartan petticoat she'll ku. 
An' durk an' pistol at her belt, 

She'll tak the streets, 
An* rin her whittle to the hilt, 

I' th' first she meets ! 

For God sake, sirs, then speak her fair, 
An' straik her cannie wi' the hair, 
An' to the muckle house repair, 

Wi' instant speed, 
An' strive, wi' a' your wit and lear. 

To get remead. 

Y n ill-tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox, 
May taunt you wi' his jeers an' mocks ; 
But gie him't het, my hearty cocks ! 

E'en cowe the cadie ! 
An' send him to his dicing box, 

An' sportin' lady. 

Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Boconnock's 
I'll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks. 
An' drink his health in auld Nanse Tinnock's' 

Nine times a-week, 
If he sr.me scheme, like tea an' winnocks, 

Wad kindly seek. 

Could he some commutation broach, 
I'll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch, 



» A worthy old hostess of tho author's in Matichline, 
where he sometimes studies politics over a glass of guid 
KL.d Scotch drink 



H 3 need na fear their foul reproach 

Nor erudition, 
Yon mixtie-maxtie queer hotch-potch, 
The Coalition. 

Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue ; 
She's just a devil wi' a rung; 
An' if she promise auld or young 

To tak their part, 
Th9>' by the neck she should be strung, 

She'll no desert. 

An' now, ye chosen Five-and- Forty, 
May still your mither's heart support ye, 
Then, though a minister grow dorty, 

An' kick your piace, 
Ye'U snap your fingers, poor an' hearty. 

Before his face. 

God bless your honours a' your days, 
Wi' sowps o' kail and brats o' claise. 
In spste o' a' the thievish kaes. 

That haunt St. Jamie s i 
Your humble Poet signs an' prays 

While Kab his name is. 



POSTSCEIPT. 

Let half-starv'd slaves in warmer skies 
See future wines, rich clust'ring, rise ; 
Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies, 

But blythe and frisky, 
She eyes her freeborn, martial boys, 

Tak aff their whiskey. 

WTiat tho' their Phoebus kinder warms. 
While fragrance blooms and beauty charms ! 
When wretches range, in famish'd swarms, 

The scented groves, 
Or hounded forth, dishonour arms 

In hungry droves. 

Their gun's a burden on their shouther^ 
They downa bide the stink o' powther ; 
Their bauldest thought's a' hank'ring swithm 

To Stan' or rin, 
Till skelp — a shot — they're aff, a' throther 

To save their skin. 

But bring a Scotsman frae his hill, 
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill, 
Say, such is royal George's will. 

An' there's the fc9, 
He has nae thought but how to kill 

Twa at a blow. 



110 IHE POETICAL WORKS 


Nae cauld faint-hearted doubtings tease him ; 


Ye've nought to do but mark and tell 


Death comes, wi' fearless eye he sees him ; 


Your neibor's fauts and folly ! 


Wi' bluidy han' a welcome gies him ; 


Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill, 


An' when he fa's, 


Supply'd wi' store o' water, 


His latest draught o' breathin' lea'es him 


The heaped happer's ebbing still, 


In faint huzzas I 


And still the clap plays clatteT. 


Sages their solemn een may steek, 


II. 


An' rais<» a philosophic reek, 


Hear me, ye venerable core, 


An' physnally causes seek. 


_ As counsel for poor mortals, 


In clime an' season; 


That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door 


But tell me whiskey's name in Greek, 


For glaikit Folly's portals ; 


I'll tell the reason. 


I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes. 


Scotland, my auld, respected mither ! 
The' whiles ye moisti.^ J^our leather, 
Till whare ye sit, on craps o' heather 


Would here propone defences, 
Theii donsie tricks, their black mistakes. 
Their failings and mischances. 


Ye tiiie y>ur dam; 


III. 


Freedom and whiskey gi ig thegither! — 
Ta^ aff your dram ! 


Ye see your state wi' theirs compar'd. 
And shudder at the niffer-, 




But cast a moment's fair regard. 




What maks the mighty differ ? • 






Discount w^t scant occasion gave. 


XXXIX. 


That purity ye pride in. 
And (what's aft mair than a' the lave) 


ALDRFSS TO THE UNCO GUID, 

OR THE 

RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS. 


Your better art o' hiding. 


IV. 

Think, when your castigated pulse 


"My son, these maxims make a rule, 
And lump them ay thegither; 


Gies now and then a wallop, 
What ragings must his veins convulse. 


A'he Rigid Righteous is a fool. 


• That still eternal gallop : 


The Rigid Wise anither : . 
The cleanest corn that e'er was dight 

May hae some pyles o' caff in; 
So ne'er a fellow-creatu'e slight 


Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail. 
Right on ye scud your sea-way ; 
But in the teeth o' baith to sail. 


For random fits o' daf,.,..." 


f It makes an unco lee-way 


Solomon.— Eccles. ch. vii. ver. 16. 




[" Burns," says Hogg; in a note on this Poem, " has 


v. 


written more from his own heart and his own feelings 
than any other poet. External nature had few charms 
for him ; the sublime shades and hues of heaven and 
e^rth never excited his enthusiasm : but with the secret 


See social life and glee sit down, 

All joyous and unthinking, 
'Till, quite transmugrify'd, they're growl 


fc intains of passion in the human soul he was well 


Debauchery and drinking ; 


scquainted." Burns, indeed, was not what is called a 
descriptive poet : yet with what exquisite snatches of 
description are some of his poems adorned, and in what 
frag;rant and romantic scenes he enshrines the heroes and 


would they stay to calculate 

Th' eternal consequences ; 
Or your more dreaded hell to state. 


heioines of many of his finest songs ! Who the high. 


D-mnation of expenses ! 


exalted, virtuous dames were, to whom the Poem refers. 




we are not told. How much men stand mdebted to want 


VI. / 


>l opportunity to sin, and how much of their good name 
itey owe to the ignorance of the w »rld, were inquiries 


Ye high, exalted, virtuous d9,mes, 


« which the poet found pleasure.] 


Ty'd up in godly laces, 




Before ye gie poor frailty names. 


I. 


Suppose a change o' cases , 


TE wha are sae guia yourse * 


A dear lov'd lad, convenience snug, 


Sae pious and sae holy, 


A treacherous inclination — 



OF ROBERT BURNS. Ill 


But, let me whisper, i' yovir lug. 


Has auld Kilmarnock seen the dcil? 


"^^'re aiblins nae temptation. 


Or great M'Kinlay^ thrawn his heel ? 




Or Kobinson" again grown weel, 


VII. 


To preach an' read T 


Then gently scan your brother man, 


" J?a, waur than a' !" cries ilka chiel- 


Still gentler sister woman ; 


Tam Samson's dead ! 


Though they may gang a kennin' wrang, 




To step aside is human : 


Kilmarnock lang may grunt an' grane. 


One point must still be greatly dark, 


An' sigh, an' sob, an' greet her lane, 


The moving why they do it : 


An' deed her bairns, man, wife, an wean, 


And just as lamely can ye mark, 


In mourning weed ; 


How far perhaps they rue it.' 


To death, she's dearly paid the kane, 




Tam Samson's dead ! 


VIII. 




Who made the heart, 'tis He alone 


The brethren o' the mystic level 


Decidedly can try us. 
He knows each chord — its various tone. 


May hing their head in woefu' bevel, 


While by their nose the tears will revel, 


Each spring — its various bias : 


Like ony bead ; 


Then at the balance let's be mute, 


Death's gien the lodge an unco devel, 


"We never can adjust it; 


Tam Samson's dead t 


What's done we partly may compute. 


"WTien Winter muffles up his cloak. 


But know not what's resisted. ' 


And binds the mire like a rock ; 




When to the lochs the curlers flock, 




Wi' gleesome speed. 






Wha will they station at the cock ? 




Tam Samson's dead ! 


XL. 






He wag the king o' a' the core. 


TAM SAMSON'S ELEGY.' 


To guard or draw, or wick a bore, 


• Ad honest man's the noblest work of God." 


Or up the rink like Jehu roar 


Pope. 


In timf o' need ; 


[Tam Samson was a west country seedsman and eports- 


But now he lags on death's hog-score. 


man, who loved a good song, a social glass, and relished 


Tam Samson's dead! 


» snot so well that he expressed a Avish to die and be 




onried in the moors. On this hint Burns wrote the Elegy : 


Now safe the stately sawmont sail, 


when Tam heard o' this he waited on the poet, caused 


And trouts be-dropp'd wi' crimson hail, 


dim to recite it, and expressed displeasure at being 
numbered witk the dead : the author, whose wit was as 


And eels weel ken'd for souple tail, 


ready as his rhymes, added the Per Contra in a moment, 


And geds for greed. 


much to the delight of his friend. At his death the four 


Since dark in death's fish-creel we wail 


lines of Epitaph were cut on his gravestone. " This poem 


Tam Samson dead. 


hasalv^ays," says Hogg, "been a great country favour- 




ite : 'it abounds with happy expressions. 


Rejoice, ye birring patricks a' ; 


' In vain the ourns cam' down like waters, 


Te cootie moorcocks, crousely craw ; 


An acre braid.' 


Ye maukins, cock your fud fu' braw, 


What a p". jtzre of a flooded burn ! any other poet would 


Withouten dread ; 


dave given ua a long description : Burns dashes it down 


Your mortal fae is now awa' — 


atOEDS IE a style so graphic no one can mistake it. 


Tam Samson's dead ! 


< Perhaps upon his mouldering breast 




Some spitefu' moorfowl bigs her nest.' 


That woefu' morn be ever mourn'd 


Match that sentence who can."] 


Saw him in shootin' graith adorn'd. 


I "When t" is worthy old sportsman went out last muir- 


3 Another preacher, an equal favourite with the fvn 


fow- season, he supposed it was to be, in Ossian's phrase, 


who was at that time ailing. F or him see also the Ori» 


•the last of his fields." 


nation, Stan ta IX. 


2 A preacher, a great favourite with the million. Vide 




fteOrdmation, "tafizaH J 





While pointers round impatient burn'd, 
Frae couples freed ; 

But, Och ! he gaed and ne'er return'd ! 
Tarn Samson's dead ! 

In vain auld age his body batters ; 
In vair: the gout his ancles fetters ; 
tj vain the burns cam' down like waters, 

An acre braid ! 
Now ev'ry auld wife, greetin', clatters, 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 

Owre many a weary hag he limpit, 
An' ay the tither shot he thumpit,- 
Till coward death behind him jumpit, 

Wi' deadly feide ; 
Now he proclaims, wi' tout o' trumpet, 

Tam Samson's dead! 

When at his heart he felt the dagger, 
He reel'd his wonted bottle swagger, 
But yet he drew the mortal trigger 

Wi^ weel-aim'd heed; 
" L — d, five !" he cry'd, an' owre did stagger; 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

Ilk hoary hunter mourn'd a brither; 
Ilk sportsman youth beraoan'd a father; 
Ton auld grey stane, amang the heather, 
Marks out Ms head, 
Whare Burns has wrote in rhyming blether 
• Tam Samson's dead! 

There low he lies, in lasting rest ; 
Perhaps upon his mould'ring breast 
Some epitefu' muirfowl bigs her nest, 

To hatch an' breed ; 
Alas ! nae mair he'll them molest ! 

Tam Samson's dead! 

When August winds the heather wave. 
And sportsmen wander by yon grave, 
Three volleys let his mem'ry crave 

0' pouther an' lead, 
'Till echo answer frae her cave 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

Heav'n rest his soul, whare' er he be ! 
Is th' wish o' mony mae than me ; 
He had twa fauts, or may be three. 

Yet what remead ? 
^e social, honest man want we : 

Tam Samson's dead ! 



EPITAPH. 

Tam Samson's weel-worn clay here lies, 
Ye canting zealots spare him ! 

If honest worth in heaven rise, 
Ye'll mend or ye win near him. 



PER CONTRA. 

Go, Fame, an' canter like a filly 
Thro' a' the streets an' neuks o' Killie, 
Tell ev'ry social honest billie 

To cease his grievin', 
For yet, unskaith'd by death's gleg gullie, 

Tam Samson's livin'. 



XLI. 
LAMENT, 

OCCASIONED BY THE UNFOETUNATE IS9TJ1 
OF A 

FRIEND'S AMOUR. 

'• Alas ! how oft does goodness wound itself! 
And sweet affection prove the spring of woe.* • 

HOM*. 

[The hero and heroine of this little mournful poeia, 
were Robert Burns and Jean Armour. " This wau a 
most melancholy affair," says the poet in hfs letter to 
Moore, " which I cannot yet bear to reflect oifl, and had 
very nearly gjiven me one or two of thp principal qualifi- 
cations for a place among those who have lost the charl 
and mistaken the reckoning of rationality." Hogg and 
Motherwell, with an ignorance which is easier to laugh 
at than account for, sa}' this Poem was " written on the 
oeca.sinn of Alexander Cunningham's darling sweethef rt 
slighting him and marrying another: — she acted a wise 
part." With what care they liad read the great poet 
whom they jointly edited in is needless to say: and how 
they could read the Inst two lines of the third verse and 
commend the lady's wisdom for slighting her lover, 
seems a problem whicli defies definition. This mistakf 
was pointed out by a friend, and corrected in a seccnd 
issue of the volume. j 



THOU pale orb, that silent shines. 

While care-untroubled mortals sleep . 
Thou seest a wretch who inly pines, 

And wanders here to wail and weep ! 
With woe I nightly vigils keep, 

Beneath thy wan, unwarming beam; 
And mourn, in lamentation deep. 

How life and love are all a dreaai 



OF aOBEKT BTJKNS. US 


II. 


Full many a pang, and many a throe, 


V joyless view thy rays adorn 


Keen recollection's direful train. 


The faintly marked distant Mil : 


Must wring my soul, ere Phoebus, low, 


I joyless view thy trembling horn, 


Shall kiss the distant, western main. 


Reflected in the gurgling rill : 




My fondly-fluttering heart, be still : 


VIII. 


TL ^u busy pow'r, Remembrance, cease ! 


And when my nightly couch I try. 


Ah! mast the agonizing thrill 


Sore-harass'd out with care and grief, 


For ever bar returning peace 1 


My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye, 




Keep watchings with the nightly thief: 


III. 


Or if I slumber, fancy, chief. 


No idly-feign'd poetic pains. 


Reigns haggard-wild, in sore affright : 


My sad, love-lorn lamentings claim ; 


Ev'n day, all-bitter, brings relief. 


No shepherd's pipe — Arcadian strains ; 


From such a horror-breathing night. 


No fabled tortures, quaint and tame : 




The plighted faith ; the mutual flame ; 


IX. 


The oft-attested Pow'rs above ; 


! thou bright queen, who o'er th' expanse 


The promis'd father's tender name ; 


Now highest reign'st, with boundless sway 


These vrere the pledges of my love ! 


Oft has thy silent -marking glance 




Observ'd us, fondly-wand'ring, stray! 


IV. 


The time, unheeded, sped away. 


Encircled in her clasping arms. 


While love's luxurious pulse beat high. 


How have the raptur'd moments flown! 


Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray, 


How have I wish'd for fortune's charms, 


To mark the mutual kindling eye. 


For her dear sake, and hers alone ! 




And must I think it ! — is she gone, 


X. 


My secret heart's exulting boast? 


Oh ! scenes m strong remembrarce set' 


And does she heedless hear my groan? 


Scenes never, never to return 1 


And is she ever, ever lost ? 


Scenes, if in stupor I forget. 




Again 1 teel, again I burn ! 


V. 


From ev'ry joy and pleasure torn, 


5h ! can she bear so base a heart, 


Life's weary vale I'll wander thro' ; 


So lost to honotir, lost to truth, 


And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mourn 


As from the fondest lover part, 


A faithless woman's broken vow. 


The plighted husband of her youth! 




Alas .' life's path may be unsmooth! 
Her way may lie thro' rough distress ! 






Then, who her pangs and pains will soothe, 


XLIl.. 


Her sorrows share, and make them less ? 






DESPONDENCY. 


VI. 


AN ODE. 


Ye winged hours that o'er us past, 




Enraptur'd more, the more enjoy'd. 


[" I think," said Burns/ " it is one of the greater plMk 


Your aear remembrance in my breast. 


Bures attending- a poetic genius, that we can give otu 


woes, cares, ,iovs, and loves an embodied forn. in vt-rse, 


My fondly-treasur'd thoughts employ'd, 


whicn to me is ever immediate ease." He elsew lere 


That breast, how dreary now, and void, 


says, " My passions raged like so many de\'ils till t. ay 


For her too scanty once of room ! 


got vent in rhyme." That eminent painter, Fuseii, on 


Ev'n ev'ry ray of hope destroy'd, 
And not a wish to gild the gloom ! 


seeing his wife in a passion, said composedly, " Sweai 
my love, swear heartily: you know not iiow much it wil. 
ease vou !" This poem was printed in the Kilmarnock 




edition, and gives a true picture of tliose bitter momenta 


VII. 


experienced by the bard, when love and fortune alik« 


The morn that warns th' approaching day^ 


deceived him. ] 


Awakes me up to toil and woe : 


i. 


I see the hours in long array, g 


Oppkess'd with grief, oppress'd with care, 


That I must suffer, lingering slow 


A burden more than I can bear. 



114 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



I fet me down and sigh : 
life ! thou art a galling load, 
Along a rough, a weary road. 

To wretches such as I ! 
Dim-backward as I cast my view, 
What sick'ning scenes appear ! 
Wbai, sorrows yet may pierce me thro' 
Too justly I may fear ! 
Still caring, despairing, 

Must be my bitter doom ; 

My woes here shall close ne'er 

But with the closing tomb ! 



Happy, ye sons of busy life, 
Who, equal to the bustling strife, 

No other view regard I 
Ev'n when the wished end's deny'd, 
Yet while the busy means are ply'd, 

They bring their own reward : 
Whjlst I, a hope-abandon' d wight, 

Unfitted with an aim, 
Meet ev'ry sad returning night 
And joyless morn the same; 
You, bustling, andjustling, 

forget each grief and pain ; 
I, listless, yet restless. 
Find every prospect vain. 



How blest the solitary's lot. 
Who, all-forgetting, all forgot, 

Within his humble cell, 
The cavern wild with tangling roots, 
Sits o'er his newly-gather'd fruits, 

Beside his crystal well ! 
Or, haply, to his ev'ning thought. 

By unfrequented stream. 
The ways of men are distant brought, 
A faint collected dream ; 
While praising, and raising 

His thoughts to heav'n on high. 
As wand'ring, meand'ring, 
He views th'e solemn sky. 



Than I, no lonely hermit plac'd 
Where never human footstep trac'd, 

Less fit to play the part ; 
The lucky moment to improve. 
And just to stop, and just to move. 

With self-respecting art : 
But, ah ! those pleasures, loves, and joys, 

Which I too keenly taste, 



The solitary can despise. 
Can want, and yet be blest ! 
He needs not, he heeds not, 

Or human love cr hate. 
Whilst I here, must cry here 
At perfidy ingrate ! 



Oh ! enviable, early days. 

When dancing thoughtless pleasure's mftM, 

To care, to guilt unknown ! 
How ill exchang'd for riper times, 
To fee! the follies, or *he crimes. 

Of others, or my own ! 
Ye tiny elves that- guiltless sport. 

Like linnets in the bush, 
Ye little know the ills ye court. 
When manhood is your wish ! 
The losses, the crosses. 

That active man engage ! 
The fears all, the tears all. 
Of dim declining age ! 



XLIII. 

THE 

COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 

INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ. 

"Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure : 
Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, 
The short and simple annals of the poor." 
Gray. 

[The house of A\ illiam Burns was the scene of thi« 
fine, devout, and tranquil drama, and William himself 
was the saint, the father, and the husband, who givei 
life and sentiment to the whole. " Robert had frequent- 
ly remarked to me," says Gilbert Burns, " that ha 
thought there was something peculiarly venerable in th» 
phrase, 'Let us worship God!' used by a decent sober 
head of a family, introducing family worship." To '.hji 
sentiment of the author the world is indebted for th« 
"Cotter's Saturday Night." He owed some little, ho-w 
ever, of the inspiration to Fergusson's " Farmer's trgle,' 
a poem of great merit. The calm tone and holy compo 
sure of the Cotter's Saturday Night have been mistaksji 
Dy Hogg for want of nerve and life. " It is a dull, heavy, 
lifeless poem," he says, "and the onl)' beauty it pos- 
sesses, in my estimation, is, that it is a sort of famiiy 
picture of tlie poet's family. The worst thing of all, it 
is not original, but is a decided imitation of Fergusson'j 
beautiful pastoral, 'The Farmer's Ingle: 1 have a per 
feet contempt for all plagiarisnr.* ana imitations.' 
Motherwell tries to qualify the censure of his brothei 
editor, by quotinsf l<nclchart's opinion — at once loftr 
and just, of%his fine picture of domestic happiness 8D<< 
devotion.) 




THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT/ 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



Hi 



Mt lov'd,myhonour'd,inuchrespected friend ! 

No mercenary bard his homage paya ; 
With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end: 
My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and 
praise : 
Te you I sing, in simple Scottish lays. 

The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene ; 

The native feelings strong, the guileless ways ; 

"What Aiken in a cottage would have been ; 

i.h ! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there, 

I ween ! 



•November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh; 
The short'ning winter-day is near a close ; 
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh: 
The black'ning trains o' craws to their re- 
pose: 
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes. 
This night his weekly moil is at an end. 
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, 
Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, 
Vnd weary, o'er the moor, his course does hame- 
ward bend. 



At length his lonely cot appears in view, 

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 
Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin', stacher 
thro' 
To meet their Dad, wi' fiichterin' noise an' 
glee. 
His wee bit ingle, blinkin' bonnily. 

His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie Wifie's 
smile, 
The lisping infant prattling on his knee, 
Does a' his weary kiaugh and care beguile, 
^ji' makes him quite forget his labour and his 
toil. 



Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in, 
At service out amang the farmers roun' : 
Someca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin 

A cannie errand to a neebor town : 
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, 
In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, 
Comes hame, perhaps to shew a braw new 
gown, 
Or deposite her sair woq penny-fee, 
r«. help her parents dear, if they in hardship 
be. 



With joy unfeign'd, brothers and sisters meet^ 

An' each for other's welfare kindly spiers : 
The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd, fleet. 

Each tells the unco's that he sees or hears , 
The parents, partial, eye their hopeful yearn , 

Anticipation forward points the view. 
The Mother, wi' her needle an' her shears, 

Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's th.« 
new ; — 
The Father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 



Their master's an' their mistress's command, 

The younkers a' are warned to obey; 
And mind their labours wi' m eydent hand, 

An' ne'er, tho' out o' sighx, to jauk or play: 
" And ! be sure to fear the Lord alway I 

And mind your duty, duly, morn and night 1 
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, 

Implore His counsel and assisting might : 
They never sought in vain, that sought th« 
Lord aright!" 



But, hark ! a rap comes gentiy to the door , 
Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same. 
Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor. 

To do some errands, and convoy her hame. 
The wily Mother sees the conscious flame 

Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek. 
With heart-struck anxious care, inquires h'« 
name. 
While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak ; 
Weel pleas'd the Mother hears it's nae wild, 
worthless rake. 



Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben ; 
A strappan youth; he taks the Mother's 
eye; 
Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en; 
The Father cracks of horses, pleughs, »nd 
kye. 
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, 
But blate, an laithfu', scarce can weel be- 
have; 
The Mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 
What makes the youth sae bashfu' and sa« 
grave ; 
Weel pleas'd to think her bairn's resnected Iik« 
the lave. 



116 



THE POETICAL WOKKS 



li.ippy love ! where love like this is found ! 
heart-felt raptures ! — LHss beyond com- 
pare ! 
I've paced mucji this weary, mortal round, 

And sage f^xperience bids me this declare — 
' If heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure 
spare, 
One cordial in this melancholy vale, 
'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, 
In other's arras, breathe out the tender tale, 
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the 
ev'ning gale." 



Ts there, in human form, that bears a heart — 
A wretch ! a villain ! lost to love and truth! 
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, 

Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth ? 
Curse on his perjur'd arts ! dissembling smooth ! 
Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil'd ? 
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, 

Points to the parents fondling o'er their 
child? 
Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distrac- 
tion wild ? 



But now the supper crowns their simple board. 
The halesome parritch, chief of Scotia's 
food : 
The soupe their only hawkie does afford, 
That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her 
cood: 
The dame brings forth in complimental mood, 
To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck, 
fell, 
An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid ; 
The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell. 
How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the 
bell, 



The ohee?fu' supper done, wi' serious face, 

They, round the ingle, form a circle wide; 
The Sire turns o'er, with patriarchal grace. 

The big ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride ; 
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside. 

His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare ; 
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion 
glide, 

He wales a portion with judicious' care ; 
And ' Let us worship God !' he says, with so- 



They chant their artless notes in simple guise, 

They tune their hearts, by far the nolles4 

aim: 

Perhaps Dundee's wild-warbling measurei 

rise, 

Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name j 

Or noble Elgin beets the heaven-ward flame, 

The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : 
Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tam-e , 
The tickl'd ear no heart-felt raptures raise; 
Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. 



The priest-like Father reads the sacred pape, 

How Abram was the friend of God on high ; 
Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage 

With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; 
Or how the royal bard did groaning lie 

Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire , 
Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; 

Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ; 
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 



Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme. 
How guiltless blood for guilty man was 
shed ; 
How He, who bore in Heaven it* second 
name. 
Had not on earth whereon to lay his head; 
How His first followers and servants sped. 
The precepts sage they wrote to many a 
land : 
How he who lone in Patmos banished, 
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ; 
And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounc'd by 
Heaven's command. 

XVI. 

Then kneeling down, to Heaven's- JAiJ-Ai/AX 
King, 
The Saint, the Father, and thj Husband 
prays : 
Hope ' springs exulting on trlumi/L!Lii.t wing,'' 
That thus they all shall meet In futitre days ; 
There ever bask in uncreated lays. 

No more to sigh, or shed tte bitter tear. 
Together hymning Iheir Creator's praise, 
In siicn society, yst still move dear: 
While circling Time moves round in an eterna' 
sphere. 



1 Pope. 



OF ROBEET BURNS. 



ii: 



Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride, 

In all the pomp of method and of art, 
When men display to congregations wide, 

Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart ! 
The Pow'r, incens'd, the pageant will desert, 

The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; 
But haply, in some cottage far apart, 

May hear, well pleas' d, the language of the 
soul ; 
inl in His book of life the inmates poor enrol. 

XVIII. 

Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way ; 

The youngling cottagers retire to rest : 
Their Parent-pair their secret homage pay, 

And proffer up to Heaven the warm request. 
That He, who stills the raven's clam'rous 
nest, 
And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride. 
Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best. 
For them and for their little ones provide ; 
But, chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine 
preside. 



From scenes like these, old Scotia's grandeur 
springs. 
That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd 
abroad : 
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 
<' An honest man's the noblest work of 
God;"i 
And certes, in fair virtue's heav'nly road. 

The cottage leaves the palace far behind ; 
What is a lordling's pomp ? a cumbrous load, 
D'sguising oft the wretch of human kind, 
Btudiea \n arts of Hell, in wickedness refin'd ! 



Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! 

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is 
sent ! 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil 
Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet 
content ! 
And, ! may heaven their simple lives prevent 

From luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! 

Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 

A virtuous populace may rise the while, 

4nd stand a wall of fire around their much- 

lov'd Isle. 

ipopo 



Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide 

That stream'd through Wallace's undaunted 
heart : 
Who dar'd to nobly stem tyrannic pride, 
Or nobly die, the second glorious part, 
(The patriot's God, peculiarly Thou art, 

His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward I) 
never, never, Scotia's realm desert ; 
But still the patriot, and the patriot bard, 
In bright succession raise, her ornament aii<i 
guard ! 



XLIV. 

THE FIRST PSALM. 

[This version was first printed in the second edition ol 
the poet's works. It cannot be regarded as one of hit 
happiest compositions : it is inferior, not indeed in ease_ 
but in simplicity and antique vigour of language, to th« 
common version used in the Kirl£ of Scotland. Burn* 
had admitted "Death and Dr. Hornbook" into Creech', 
edition, and probably desired to balance it vith Bora« 
thing at which the devout could not cavil.] 

The man, in life wherever plac'd, 

Hath happiness in store. 
Who walks not in the wicked's way, 

Nor learns their guilty lore ! 

Nor from the seat of scornful pride 

Casts forth his eyes abroad, ^ 

But with humility and awe 
Still walks before his God. 

That man shall flourish like the trees 
Which by the streamlets grow ; 

The fruitful top is spread on high. 
And firm the root below. 

But he whose blossom buds in guilt 

Shall to the ground be cast, 
And, like the rootless stubble, tost 

Before the sweeping blast. 

For why ? that God the good adcre 
Hath giv'n them peace and rest, 

But hath decreed that wicked men 
Shall ne'er be truly blest. 



118 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



THE FIRST SIX VERSES 

OF THE 

NINETIETH PSALM, 

[The ninetieth Psnlm is said to have been a favourite 
n the cousefiold of William Burns : the version used by 
fiha hirit, though unequal, contains beautiful verses, and 
possesses the same strain of sentiment and moral reason- 
fngr as the poem of "Mid v/'as made to Mourn." These 
rerses first appsnred in the Edinburgh edition ; and they 
might have been spared ; for iu the hands of a poet igno- 
rant of the origin-il language of the Psalmist, how could 
they be so correct in sense and expression as in a sacred 
It ain is not only desirable but necessary ?] 

Thou, the first, the greatest friend 

Of all the human race ! 
Whose strong right hand has ever been 

Their stay and dwelling place ! 

Before the mountains heav'd their heads 

Beneath Thy forming hand. 
Before this ponderous globe itself 

Arose at Thy command ; 

That Pow'r which rais'd and still upholds 

This universal frame, 
From countless, unbeginning time 

Was ever still the same. 

Those mighty periods of years 

Which seem to us so vast, 
Appear no more before Thy sight 

Than yesterday that's past. 

Thou giv'st the word : Thy creature, man, 

Is to existence brought; 
Again Thou say'st, "Ye sons of meUj 

Return ye into nought!" 

Thou layest them, with all their cares, 

In everlasting sleep ; 
As with a flood Thou tak'st them off 

With overwhelming sweep. 

They flouri8h like the morning flow'r, 

In beauty's pride array'd ; 
But long ere night, cut down, it lies 

All wither'd and decay'd. 



TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, 

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH I8 
APKIL, 1786. 

[This was not the original title of this sweet poem : I 
have a copy in the handwriting of Burns erstitled " Th» 
Gowan." This more natural name he changed as he die 
his own, without reasonable cause ; and he changed it 
about the same time, for he ceased to call himself BurnesJ 
and his poem " The G-ovi^an," in the first edition of hn 
works. The field at Mossgiel where he turned down the 
Daisy is said to be the same field where some five months 
before he turned up the Mouse ; but this seems likely 
only to those who are little acquainted with tillage — who 
think that in J"ime and place reside the chief charms of 
verse ; and who feel not the beauty of " The Daisy," tili 
they seek and, find the spot on which it grew. Sublime 
morality and the deepest emotions of the soul pass for 
little with those who remember only what genius lovei 
to forget.] 

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, 
Thou's met me in an evil hour ; 
For I maun crush amang the stoure 

Thy slender stem ; 
To spare thee now is past my pow'r, 

Thou bonnie gem, 

Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet. 
The bonnie lark, companion meet ! 
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, 

Wi' spreckl'd breast, 
When upward-springing, blythe, to greet 

The purpling east. 

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 
Upon thy early, humble birth ; 
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 

Amid the storm, 
Scarce rear'd above the parent earth 

Thy tender form. 

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield. 
High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield 
But thou, beneath the random bield 

0' clod or stane, 
Adorns the histie stibble-field. 

Unseen, alane. 

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 
Thy snawie bosom sunward spread, 
Thou lifts thy unassuming head 

In humble guise ; 
But now the share uptears thy bed. 

And low thou lies I 



OF ROBERT BUlxNS. li?> 


Such is the fate of artless maid, 


But how (he subject-theme may gang^ 


Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade ! 


Let time and chance determine ; 


By love's simplicity betray'd, 


Perhaps it may turn out a sang, 


And guileless trust, 


Perhaps, turn out a sermon 


'Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid 


. 


Lo-w i' the dust. 


II. 




Ye'U try the world soon, my lad. 


feach is the fate of simple bard. 


And, Andrew dear, believe me, 


On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd ! 


Ye'U find mankind an unco squad, 


Unskilful he to note the card 


And muckle they may grieve ye : 


Of prudent lore, 


For care and trouble set y«ur thought, 


'Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, 


Ev'n when your end's attain'd ; 


And whelm him o'er ! 


And a' your views may come to noughtj 




Where ev'ry nerve is strained 


Such fate tc suffering worth is giv'n. 




Who long with w&.nts and woes has striv'n, 


III. 


By human priqle or cunning driv'n 


I'll no say men are villains a' ; 


To mis'ry's brink, 


The real, harden' d wicked. 


'Till wrenched of evory stay but Heav'n, 


Wha hae nae check but human law, 


He, ruin'd, sink ! 


Are to a few restricked ; 




But, och ! mankind are unco weak 


Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, 


An' little to be trusted ; 


That fate is thine — no distant date ; 


If self the wavering balance shake. 


Stern Kuin's ploughshare drives, elate, 


It's rarely right adjusted ! 


Full on thy bloom, 




Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, 


IV. 


, Shall be thy doom! 


Yet they wha fa' in Fortune's strife, 




Their fate we, should na censure 




For still th' important end of life 
They equally may answer ; 






A man may hae an honest heart, 




Tho' poortith hourly stare him ; 


XLvn. 


A man may tak a neebor's part, 


EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. 


Yet hae nae cash to spare him. 


MAT, 1786, 


V. 


[Andrew Aikin, to whom this poem of good counsel Is 


Ay free, aff han' your story tell, 


t Idressed, was one of the sons of Robert Aiken, writer in 


When wi' a bosom crony ; 


Ayr, to whom the Cotter's Saturday Night is inscribed. 


But still keep something to yoursel' 


He became a merchant m Liverpool, wi^h what success 




we are not informed, and died at St. Petersburgh. The 


Ye scarcely tell to ony. 


poet has beez charged with a desire to teach hypocrisy 


Conceal yoursel' as weel's ye can 


rather than truth to his " Andrew dear j" but surely to 


Frae critical dissection ; 


30nceal ons's own thoughts and discover those of others. 


But keek thro' ev'ry other man. 


cat a-iarceiy be called hypocritical : it is, in fact, a ver- 
Bi n t f the celebrated precept of prudence, " Thoughts 


Wi' sharpen' d, sly inspection. 


e/. jse and looks loose." Whether he profited by all the 




B .insol showered upon him by the muse we know not: 


VI. 


De was much respected— his name embalmed, like that 


The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love, 


Df his father, in the poetry of his friend, is net likely soon 
to perish ] 


Luxuriantly indulge it ; 


But never tempt th' illicit ro.e, 


I. 


Tho' naething should divulge it: 


I LANG hae thought, my youthfu' friend. 


I waive the quantum o' the sin, 


A something to have sent you, 


The hazard of concealing ; 


Though it should serve nae ither end 


But, och ! it hardens a' within, 


Than just a kind memento , 


And petrifies the feeling ! 



120 THE POETICAL WORKS 


VII. 


XLVIII. 


To catch dame Fortune's golden smile, 


TO A LOUSE, 


Assiduous wait upon her ; 




And gather gear by ev'ry wile 


ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S BONNET, AT CHUBCU. 


That's justified by honour; 


[A Mauchline incident of a MauchUne lady is related 


Not for to hide it in a hedge, 
Nor for a train-attendant ; 


in this poem, which to many of the softer friends of th« 


bard was anything but welcome : it appeared in the Kit 
marnock copy of his Poems, and remonstrance and per- 


Bat for the glorious privilege 


suasion were alike tried in vain to keep it out oi tit 


01 being independent. 


Edinburgli edition. Instead of regarding it as a seasoB- 




able rebuke to pride and vanity, some of his learneu 




commentators called it coarse and vulgar — those classie 


V 1 1 1. 


persons might have remembered that Julian, no vulgal 


Tl«e fear o' Hell's a hangman's whip. 


person, but an emperor and a scholaj, wore a populou 


To hand the wretch in order ; 


beard, and was proud of it.J 


But where ye feel your honour grip, 


Ha ! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie ! 


Let that ay be your border : 


Your impudence protects you sairly : 


Its slighest touches, instant pause — 


I canna say but ye strunt rarely. 


Debar a' side pretences ; 


Owre gauze and lace ; 


And resolutely keep its laws, 


Tho' faith, I fear, ye dine but sparely 


Uncaring consequences 


On sic a place. 


IX. 


Ye ugly, creepin', blastit wonner. 


The great Creator to revere 


Detested, shunn'd, by saunt an' sinner, 


Must sure become the creature ; 


How dare you set your fit upon her. 


But still the preaching cant forbear, 


Sae fine a lady ! 


And ev'n the rigid feature : 


Gae somewhere else, and seek your dinner 


Yet ne'er with wits profane to range. 


On some poor body. 


Be complaisance extended ; 




An Atheist laugh's a poor exchange 


Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle ; 


Eor Deity offended ! 


There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle 


Wi' ither kindred, jumping cattle, 


X. 


In shoals and nations ; 




Whare horn nor bane ne'er daur unsettle 


When ranting round in pleasure's ring, 
Religion may be blinded ; 


Your thick plantations. 


Or if she gie a random sting, 


Now haud you there, ye're out o' sight. 


It may be little minded ; 


Below the fatt'rells, snug an' tight ; 


But when on life we're tempest-driv'n^ 


Na, faith ye yet! ye'U no be right 


A conscience but a canker— 


'Till ye've got on it, 


A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n 


The vera topmost, tow'ring height 


Is sure a noble anchor ! 


0' Miss's bonnet. 


XI. 


My sooth! righc bauld ye set your nose OUv, 


Adieu, dear, amiable youth ! 


As plump an' gray as onie grozet ; 


Your heart can iie'er be wanting ! 


for some rauK, mercurial rozet, 


May prudence, fortitude, and truth 


Or fell, red smeddum, 


Erect your brow undaunting ! 


I'd gie you sic a hearty doze o't, 


In ploughman phrase, ' God send you speed,' 


Wad dross your drodlum 


Still daily to grow wiser : 




And may you better reck the rede 


I wad na been surpris'd to spy 


Than ever did th' adviser ! 


You on an auld wife's flainen toy ; 




Or aiblins some bit duddie boy, 




On's wyliecoat ; 
But Miss's fine Lunardi ! fie ! 






Howdauryedo'tf 



OF ROBEKT BURNS. 121 


0, Jenny, dinna toss your head, 


Spare't for their sakes wha aften wear it, 


An' set your beauties a' abread ! 


The lads in black! 


Ye little ken what cursed speed 


But your curst wit, when it comes near it 


The blastie's makin' I 


Rives't aff their lack, 


Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread. 




Are notice takin' 1 


Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithiug, 




It's just the blue-gown badge an' claithing 


wa-i some Power the giftie gie us 


0' saunts ; tak that, ye lea'e them uaething 


To ken them by. 


Tc see oursels as others see us ! 


It wad frae monie a blunder free us 


Frae ony unregenerate heathen, 
Like you or I. 


An' foolish notion ; 


What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us, 


I've sent you here some rhyming ware. 


And ev'n devotion ! 


A' that I bargain'd for, an' mair ; 




Sae, when you hae an hour to spare, 




I will expect 
Yon sang,2 ye'U sen't wi cannie care, 






And no neglect. 


XLIX. 


Tho' faith, sma' heart hae I to sing ! 


EPISTLE TO J. RANKINE, 


My muse dow scarcely spread her wing ' 




I've play'd mysel' a bonnie spring. 


ENCLOSING SOME POEMS. 


An' danc'd my fill! 


[The person to 'vhom these verses are addressed lived 


I'd better gaen an' sair't the king. 


«t Adamhill in Ayrshire, and merited the praise of rough 


At Bunker's Hill 


SLid ready-witled, which the poem bestows. The La- 




moroas dream alluded to, was related by way of rebuke 


'Twas ae night lately, in my fun, 


to a west country earl, who was in the habit of calling 


I gaed a roving wi' the gun, 


all people of low degree •' Brutes ! —damned brutes." 


An' brought a paitrick to the gruu', 
A bonnie hen, 


" I dreamed that 1 was dead," said the rustic satirist to 


his superior, " and condemned for the company I kept. 


When I came to hell-door, where mony of your lordship's 


And, as the twilight was begun. 


friends gang, I chappit, and ' Wha are ye, and where 


Thought nane wad ken 


rt'ye come frae?' Satan exclaimed. 1 just said, that my 




Same was Rankine, and I came frae yere lordship's land. 


The poor wee thing was little hurt ; 


'Awawi'you,' cried Satan; ' ye canna come here : hell's 


I straikit it a wee for sport, 


•bu o' his lordship's damned brutes already.' "1 


Ne'er thinkin' they wad fash me foi't ; 


EOTJQH, rude, ready-witted Eankiue, 


But, deil-ma-care I 


The wale o' cocks for fun an' drinkin' ! 


Somebody tells the poacher-court 


There's monie godly folks are thinkin', 


The hale affair. 


Your dreams' an' tricks 


Some auld us'd hands had taen a ncte, 


Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin' 


That sic a hen had got a shot ; 


Straught to auld Nick's. 


I was suspected for the plot ; 




I scorn'd to lie ; 


Ye hae so-e monie cracks an' cants, 


So gat the whissle o' my groat. 


Ani in your wicked, dru'ken rants. 


An' pay't the fee. 


jfe mak a devil o' the saunts, 




An' fill them fou ; 


But, by my gun, o' guns the wale, 


And then their failings, flaws, an' wants, 


An' by my pouther an' my hail. 


Are a' seen through. 


An' by my hen, an' by her tail, 




I vow an' swear ! 


Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it ! 


The game shall pay o'er moor an' dale, 


That holy robe, dinna tear it ! 


For this niest year. 


I A eertsiti humorous uream of his was then makiiig a 


2 A song he had pronused the author 


•oseinlh sonnti/.side. 





122 THE POETICAL WORKS 


As soon's the clockin-time is by, 


The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him, 


An' the wee pouts begun to cry, 


Wi' tearfu' e'e ; 


L — d, I'se hae sportin' by an' by. 


For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him 


For my gowd guinea ; 


That's owre the sea I 


Tho' I should herd the buckskin kye 




For't, in Virginia. 


Fortune, they hae room to grumble ! 




Hadst thou taen' aff some drowsy bummle 


Trowth, they had muckle for to blame ! 


Wha can do nought but fyke and fumble, 


'Twas neither broken wing nor limb, 


'Twad been nae plea , 


But twa-three draps about the wame 


But he was gleg as onie wiunble, 


Scafce thro' the feathers; 


That's owre the sea 1 


^n' baith a yellow George to claim, 




An' thole their blethers ! 


Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear, 




An' stain them wi' the saut, saut tear ; 


It pits me ay as mad's a hare ; 


'Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear, 


So I can rhyme nor write nae mair ; 


In flinders flee ; 


But pennyworths again is fair, 


He was her laureate monie a year, 


When time's expedient: 


That's owre the saa 1 


Meanwhile I am, respected Sir, 




Four most obedient. 


He saw Misfortune's cauld nor-west 




Lang mustering up a bitter blast ; 




A jillet brak his heart at last. 




111 may she be ! 




So, took a birth- afore the mast, 


L. 


An' owre the sea. 


ON A SCOTCH BARD, 


To tremble under fortune's cummock. 


• 


On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock, 


GONE TO THE WEST INDIES. 


Wi' his proud, independent stomach, 


I^Bums 111 tiiis Poem, as well as in others, speaks open- 


Could ill agree ; 


ly of his tastes and passions : his own fortunes are dwelt 


So, row't his hurdles in a hammock. 


on with painful minuteness, and his errors are recorded 




with the accuracy, but not the seriousness of the con- 


An' owre the sea. 


fessional. He seems to have been fond of taking himself 




to task. It was written when " Hungry ruin had him.in 


He ne'er was gien to great misguiding, 


the wind," and emigration to the West Indies was the 
only refuge which he could think of, or his friends 


Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in ; 


Wggest, from the persecutions of fortune.] 


Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding : 




He dealt it free ; 


A' TE wha live by sowps o' drink. 


The muse was a' that he took pride in, 


A' ye wha live by crambo-clink. 


That's owre the sea. 


A' ye wha live and never think, 




Come, mourn wi' me 1 


Jamaica bodies, use him weel, 


OiH billie's gien us a' a jink. 


An' hap him in a cozie biel ; 


An' owre the sea. 


Te'U find him ay a dainty chiel. 




And fou o' glee ; 


Ljiment him a' ye rantin' core. 


He wad na wrang'd the vera deil. 


Wha dearly like a random-splore. 


That's owre the sea> 


Nae mair he'll join the merry roar 




In social key ; 


Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie ! 


For now he's taen anither shore, 


Your native soil was right ill-willie ; 


An' owre the sea 1 


But may ye flourish like a lily, 




Now bonnilie ! 


The bonnie lasses weel may wiss him, 


I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie. 


^d in their dear petitions place him ; 


Tho' owre theeoal 



OF EGBERT BUENS. 



12b 



THE FAREWELL. 

•* The va \.s:kt in himself, what can he suffer ? 
O - -rv'ia.. does he regard his single woes ? 
But whan , alas ! he multiplies himself, 
To dearei selves, to the lovM tender 'air, 
Id Oiose whose bliss, whose beings hang upon him, 
To helpless children ! then, O then ! he feels 
The point of misery fest'ring in his heart, 
And weakly weeps his fortune like a coward. 
Such, such am I ! undone." Thomson. 

[In these serious stanzas, where the comic, as in the 
ines to the Scottish tard, are not permitted to mingle. 
Burns bids farewell to aJl or. whom his heart had any 
elairn. He seems to have looked on the sea as only a 
jlace of peril, and on the West Indies as a charnel-house.] 



Farewell, old Scotia's bleak do.mains, 
Far dearer than the torrid plains 

Where rich ananas blow ! 
Farewell, a mother's blessing dear ! 
A. brother's sigh ! a sister's tear ! 
My Jean's heart-rending throe ! 
fe'arewell, my Bess ! tho' thou'rt bereft 

Of my parental care, 
A faithful brother I have left, 
My part in him thou'lt share ! 
Adieu too, to you too, 

My Smith, my bosom frien' ; 
When kindly you mind me, 
then befriend my Jean ! 



What bursting anguish tears my heart i 
From *hee, my Jeany, must I part ! 
Thou weeping answ'rest — " No I" 
Alas ! misfortune stares my face, 
And points to ruin and disgrace, 

I for thy sake must go ! 
Thee, Hamilton, and Aiken dear, 

A grateful, warm adieu; 
I. with a mu ;h-indebted tear. 
Shall still remember you I 
All-hail then, the gale then. 

Wafts me from thee, dear shore <. 
It rustles, and whistles 
I'll never see thee more ! 



Ln. 

WRITTEN 

ON THE BLANK LEAF OV A COPT OF MY POEMS, PBB- 
SENIED TO AN OLD SWEETHEART, THEN MARSIBr. 

This is another of the poet's lamertstions, at th« 
prospect of "torrid climes" and the roarsoftl jo Atlantic 
To Burns, Scotland was the land of promise, the west of 
Scotland his paradise ; and the land of dread, Jamaica ! 
I found these lines copied by the poet into a volume 
which he presented to Dr. Geddes : they were addressed 
it is thought, to the "Dear E." of his earliest corre 
spondence.] 

Once fondly lov'd and still remember'd dear: 
Sweet early otjcct of my youthful vows! 

Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere,' 
Friendship ! 'tis all cold duty now allows. 

And when you read the simple artless rhymes. 
One friendly sigh for him — he asks no more,— ■ 

Who distant burns in flaming torrid climes, 
Or haply lies beneath th' Atlantic roar. 



A DEDICATION 



GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. 

[The gentleman to whom these manly lines are ad- 
dressed, was of good birth, and of an open and generout 
nature : he was one of the first of the gentry of the west 
to encourage the muse of Coila to stretch hei wings at 
full length. His free life, and free speech, exposed him 
to the censures of that stern divine, Daddie Auld, who 
charged him with the sin of absenting himself from 
church for three successive da^'s ; for having, without 
the fear of God's servant before him, profanely said 
damn it, in his presence, and for having gallopped on 
Sunday. These charges were contemptuously dismissad 
l»y the presbyterial court. Hamilton was the brother ot 
the Charlotte to whose charms, on the banks of Devon, 
Burns, it is said, paid the homage of a lover, as we'l ai 
of a poet. The poem had a place in the KiJmarnock edi 
tion, but not as an express dedication.] 

Expect na, Sir, in this narration. 
A fleechin', fleth'rin dedication. 
To roose you up, an' ca' you guid, 
Ah' sprung o' great an' noble bluid. 
Because ye're surnam'd like his Grace ; 
Perhaps related to the race ; 
Then when I'm tir'd — and sae are ye, 
Wi' monie a fulsome, sinfu' lie 



Set up a face, how I stop short. 
For fear your modesty be hurt. 

This may do — maun do, Sir, wi' them wha 
Maun please the great folk for a wamefou • 
For me I sae laigh I needna bow, 
For, Lord be thankit, I can plough ; 
A.nd when I downa yoke a naig. 
Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg ; 
Sae I shall say, an' that's nae flatt'rin', 
It's just sic poet, an' sic patron. 

The Poet, some guid angel help him. 
Or else, I fear some ill ane skelp hira. 
He may do weel for a' he's done yet, 
But only — he's no just begun yet. 

The Patron, (Sir, ye maun forgie me, 
I wiuna lie, come what will o' me,) 
On ev'ry hand it will allow' d be. 
He's just — nae better than he should be. 

I readily and freely grant, 
He downa see a poor man want ; 
What's no his ain, he winna tak it ; 
What ance he says, he winna break it ; 
Ought he can lend he'll no refus't, 
'Till aft his guidness is abus'd ; 
And rascals whyles that do him wrang, 
Ev'n that, he does na mind it lang : 
As master, landlord, husband, father, 
He does na fail his part in either. 

But then, nae thanks to him for a' that j 
Nae godly symptom ye can ca' that ; 
It's naething but a milder feature. 
Of our poor sinfu', corrupt nature : 
Ye'U get the best o' moral works, 
'Mang black Gentoos and pagan Turks, 
Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi, 
Wha never heard of orthodoxy. 

That he's the poor man's friend in need, 
The gentleman in word and deed. 
It's no thro' terror of damnation ; 
If a just a carnal inclination. 

Morality, thou deadly bane. 
Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain ! 
Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust is 
In moral mercy, truth and justice ! 

No — stretch a point to catch a plack ; 
Abuse a brother to his back : 



Steal thro' a winnock frae a whore, 
But point the rake that taks the door; 
Be to the poor like onie whunstane, 
And hand their noses to the grunstane. 
Ply ev'ry art o' legal thieving ; 
No matter — stick to sound tielieving. 

Learn three-mile piay'rs an' half-mile grace* 
Wi' weel-spread looves, and lang wry faces ; 
Grunt up a solemn, lengthen'd groan. 
And damn a' parties but your own ; 
I'll warrant then, ye're nae deceiver, 
A steady, sturdy, staunch believer. 

ye wha leave the springs o' Calvin, 
For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin' ! 
Ye sons of heresy and error, 

Ye'U some day squeel in quaking terror ! 
When Vengeance draws the sword in wratu, 
And in the fire throws the sheath ; 
When Ruin, with his sweeping besom. 
Just frets 'till Heav'n commission gies him 
While o'er the harp pale Mis'ry moans. 
And strikes the ever-deep'ning tones. 
Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans > 

Your pardon, Sir, for this digression, 

1 maist forgat my dedication ; 
But when divijiity comes cross me 
My readers still are sure to lose me. 

So, Sir, ye see 'twas nae daft vapoui, 

But I maturely thought it proper. 

When a' my works I did review. 

To- dedicate them. Sir, to you : . 

Because (ye need na tak it ill) 

I thought them something like yoursel'. 

Then patronize them wi' your favour, 

And your petitioner shall ever — 

I had amaist said, ever pray. 

But that's a word I need na say : 

For prayin' I hae little skill o't ; 

I'm baith dead sweer, an' wretched ill o't 

But I'se repeat each poor man's pray'r, 

That kens or hears about you, Sir — 

*' May ne'er misfortune's gowling bark, 
Howl thro' the dwelling o' the Clerk ! 
May ne'er his gen'rous, honest heart, 
For that same gen'rous spirit smart ! 
May Kennedy's far-honour'd name 
Lang beet his hymeneal flame. 
Till Hamiltons, at least a dizen. 
Are frae their nuptial labours risen : 



OF EGBERT BURNS 125 


Five bonnie lasses round their table, 


To tell the truth, they seldom fash't hira, 


And seven braw fellows, stout an' able 


Except the moment that they crush't him ; 


To serve their king and country weel, 


For sune as chance or fate had hush't 'em, 


By word, or pen, or pointed steel ! 


Tho' e'e^ sae short, 


May health and peace, with mutual rays, 


Then wi' a rhyme or song he lash't 'em. 


Shine on the ev'ning o' his days ; 


And thought it sport. 


'Till his wee curlie John's-ier-oe, 




When ebbing life nae mair shall flow, 


Tho' he was bred to kintra wark, 


The last, sad, mournful rites bestow." 


And counted was baith wight and sUrk. 




Yet that was never Robin's mark 


I will not wind a lang conclusion, 


To mak a man ; 


With complimentary effusion : 


But tell him he was learned and dark, 


But whilst your wishes and endeavours 


Ye roos'd him than ' 


Are blest with Fortune's smiles and favours, 




I am, dear Sir, with zeal most fervent. 
Tour much indebted, humble servant. 






But if (which pow'rs above prevent) 


LV. 


That iron-hearted carl, Want, 




Attended in his grim advances . 


LETTER TO JAMES TENNANT, 


By sad mistakes and black mischances, 


OF GLENCONNER. 


While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him, 


[The west countr-* farmer to whom this letter w». 


Make you as poor a dog as I am. 


sent, was a social man. The poet depended on his judg. 


Your humble servant then no more ; 


ment in the choice of a farm, when he resolved to quit 


For who would hambly serve the poor ! 


the ha-p for the plough : but as Ellisland was hia choice, 


But by a poor man's hope in Heav'ii ! » 


his skill mav be questioned] 


While recollection's pow'r is given, 


AuLD comrade dear, and brither sinner. 


If, in the vale of humble life, 


How's a' the folk about Glenconner ? 


The victim sad of fortune's strife. 


How do you this blae eastlin wind, 


I, thro' the tender gushing tear. 


That's like to blaw a body blind ? 


Should recognise my Master dear, 


For me, my faculties are frozen. 


If friendless, low, we meet together, 


My dearest member nearly dozen'd. 


Then Sir, your hand — my friend and brother. 


I've sent you here, by Johnle Simson, 




Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on ; 




Smith, wi' his sympathetic feeling. 
An' Reid, to common sense appealing. 






Philosophers have fought and wrangled, 


LIV. 


An' meikle Greek and Latin mangled. 




Till wi' their logic-jargon tir'd, 


ELEGY 


An' in the de^h of science mir'd. 


ON 


To common sense they now appeal, 




What wives and wabsters see and feel. 


THE DEATH OP ROBERT RUISSBAUX. 






But, hark ye, friend ! I charge you strictly. 


JSroipak fjuii these verses among the loose papers of 


Peruse them, an' return them quickly, * 


Sc-sss, aj;d printed them in the Reliques. They contain 


For now I'm grown sae cursed doixr* 


ti poTtion ox" the character of the poet, record his hahitual 


I pray and ponder butt the house. 


5ar»les«ies.9 in worldly affairs, and his desire to be dis- 




Sasfuished.j 


My shins, my lane, I there sit roastin'. 




Perusing Bunyan, Brown, an' Boston ; 


Now Robin lies in his last lair, 


Till by an' by, if I baud on. 


He'll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair, 


I'll grunt a real gospel groan; 


Cauld poverty, wi' hungry stare, 


Already I begin to try it. 


Nae mair shall fear him ; 


To cast my e'en up like a pyet, 


Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care, 


When by the gun she tumbles o'er. 


E'er mair come near him. 


Flutt'ring an' gasping in her eore : 



i26 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



Sae shortly you shall see me bright, 
A burning and a shining liaht. 

My heart-warm love to guid auld Glen, 
The ace a»? wale of honest men : 
When bending down wi' auld gray hairs. 
Beneath the load of years and cares, 
May He who made him still support him, 
An' views beyond the grave comfort him, 
His worthy fam'ly far and near, 
God bless them a' wi' grace and gear ! 

My auld schoolfellow, preacher Willie, 

The manly tar, my mason Billie, 

An' Auchenbay, I wish him joy; 

If he's a parent, lass or boy. 

May he be 9ad, and Meg the mithor. 

Just five-and-forty years thegither ! 

An' no forgetting wabster Charlie, 

I'm tauld he offers very fairly. 

An' Lord, remember singing Sannock, 

Wi' hale breeks, saxpence, an' a bannock, 

An' next my auld acquaintance, Nancy, 

Since she is fitted to her fancy ; 

An' her kind stars hae airted till her 

A good chiel wi' a pickle siller. 

My kindest, best respects I sen' it, 

To cousin Kate, an' sister Janet ; 

Tell them, frae me, wi' chiels be cautious. 

For, faith, they'll aiblins fin' them fashious ; 

To grant a heart is fairly civil. 

But to grant the maidenhead's the devil. 

An' lastly, Jamie, for yoiirsel'. 

May guardian angels tak a spell, 

An' steer you seven miles south o' hell : 

But first, before you see heaven's glory, 

May ye get monie a merry story, 

Monie a laugh, and monie a drink. 

And aye eneugh, o' needfu' clink. 

% 
Now fare ye weel, an' joy be wi' you. 

For my sake this I beg it o' you. 

A.ssist poor Simson a' ye can, 

\^'ll fin' him just an honest man ; 

8»e I conclude, and quat my chanter, 

fottr's, saint or sinner, 

Rob the Ranter. 



BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS CHIL9. 

[From letters addressed by Burns to Mrs. Dua-cp, 1 
would appear that this " Sweet Flow'ret, pledge o ' mtii't t 
love," was the only son of her daughter, Mrs. Henri « I i 
had married a French gentleman. The mother sno;. foc 
!owed the father to the grave : she died in the south of 
France, whither she had gone in search of health.] 

Sweet flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love, 

And ward o' mony a pray'r, 
What heart o' stane wad thou na move, 

Sae helpless, sweet, and fair ! 

November hirples o'er the lea, 

Chill on thy lovely form ; 
And gane, alas ! the shelt'ring tree, 

Should shield thee frae the stofm. 

May He who gives the rain to pour, 
And wings the blast to blaw, 

Protect thee frae the driving show'r, 
The bitter frost and snaw ! 

May He, the friend of woe and want, 
Who heals life's various stounds. 

Protect and guard the mother-plant, 
And heal her cruel wounds ! 

But late she flourish'd, rooted fast, 

Fair on the summer-morn : 
Now feebly bends she in the blast, 

Unshelter'd and forlorn. 

Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem, 

Unscath'.d by ruffian hand ! 
And from thee many a parent stem 

Arise to deck our land ! 



' TO MISS CRUIKSHANK, 

A VEET YOUNG LADT. 

WRITTEN CM THE BLANK LEAF OF A BOOK. PEESKMtKl 
TO HER BT THE AUTHOR. 

[The beauteous rose-bud of this poem was one of the 
daughters of Mr. Cruikshank, a master in the High Schoo 
of Edinburgh, at whose table Burns "ras a frequent 
guest during the year of hope which ne spent iu the 
northern mstropolis.] 



OF ROBEKT BURNS. 121 


BEA.UTB0U8 rose-bud, young and gay, 


Your bonnie face sae mild and sweet 


Blooming in thy early May, 


His honest heart enamours. 


Never may'st thou, lovely flow'r, 


And faith ye'll no be lost a whit, 


Chilly shrink in sleety show'r ! 


Tho' waired on Willie Chalmers. 


Never Boreas' hoary path, 




Never Eurus' poilonous breath, 


III. 


Never baleful stellar lights, 




Taint thee with untimely blights ! 


Auld Truth hersel' might swear ye're ftur. 


Never, never reptile thief 


And Honour safely back her, 


Riot oIl thy virgin leaf ! 


And Modesty assume your air, 


^ Nor even Sol too fiercely view 


And ne'er a ane mistak' her : 


Thy bosom blushing still with dew ! 


And sic twa love-inspiring een 




Might fire even holy Palmers ; 


May'st thou long, sweet crimson gem. 


Nae wonder then they've fatal been 


Richly deck thy native stem: 


To honest Willie Chalmers. 


'Till some evening, sober, calm, 




Dropping dews and breathing balm. 


iv. 


While all around the woodland rings, 




And ev'ry bird thy requiem sings ; 


I doubt na fortune may you shore 


Thou, amid the dirgeful sound. 


Some mim-mou'd pouthered priestie 


Shed thy dying honours round. 


Fu' lifted up wi' Hebrew lore, 


And resign to parent earth 


And band upon his breastie : 


'''he loveliest form she e'er gave birth. 


But Oh ! what signifies to you 




His lexicons and grammars ; 




The feeling heart's the royal blue, 
And that's wi' Willie Chalmers. 




LVlll. 


V. 


WILLIE CHALMERS. 


Some gapin' glowrin' countra laird, 


[Lockhart first gave this poetic curiosity to the world : 


May warstle for your favour ; 


he copied it from a small mamiscript volume of Poems 


May claw his lug, and straik his beard. 


piven oy Burns to Lauy Harriet Don, with an explanation 


And hoast up some palaver. 


in these words : " W. Chalmers, a gentleman in Ayrshire, 


My bonnie maid, before ye wed 


a particular friend of mine, asked me to write a poetic 
epistle to a young lady, his Dulcinea. I had seen her, 


Sic clumsy-witted hammers. 


but was scarcely acquainted with her, and wrote as fol- 


Seek Heaven for help, and barefit skelp 


lows." Chalmers was a writer in Ayr. I have not heard 


Awa' wi' Willie Chalmers. 


that the lady was influenced by this volunteer effusion ■■ 




adies are seldom rhymed into the matrimonial snare.] 


VI. 


I. 

Wi' braw new branks in mickle pride, 


Forgive the Bard ! my fond regard 


And eke a braw new brechan. 


For ane that shares my bosom, 


M7 Pegasus I'm got astride, 


Inspires my muse to gie 'm his dues, 


And up Parnassus pechin ; 


For de'il a hair I roose him. 


Whiles owre a bush wi' doigiward crush 


May powers aboon unite you soon, 


Th 3 doitie beastie stammers ; 


And fructify your amours,— 


Then up he gets and off he sets 


And every year come in mair dear 


For sake 0' Willie Chalmers. 

11. 
I doubt na, lass, th&t we^I kenn'd name 


To you aad Willie Chalmers. 




May cost a pair 0' blushes ; 




»■ am uae stranger to your fame, 




N«r his warm urged wishes 





128 



THE POETICAL WOKKS 



-YINO AT A REVEREND FRIEND'S HOUSE ONE NIGHT, 
THE AUTHOR LEFT THE FOLLOWING 

VERSES 

IN TH3 ROOM WHERE HE SLEPT. 

[Of the origin of these verses Gilbert Burns gives the 
Rjilo-wlng account. "The first time Robert heard the 
gpiamst plajed was at the house of Dr. Lawrie, then 
minister of I^oudon, now in Glasgow. Dr Lawrie has 
several daughters; one of them played; the father and 
the mother led down the dance; the rest of the sisters, 
the brother, the poet and the othef guests mixed in it. 
It was a deligiitful family scene for our poet, then lately 
introduced to the world : his mind was roused to a poetic 
•nthusiasm, and the stanzas were left in the room where 
he slept."] 



THOU dread Power, who reign'st above ! 

I know thou wilt me hear, 
When for this scene of peace and loTC 

I make my prayer sincere. 



The hoary sire — the mortal stroke, 
Long, long, be pleased to spare ; 

'^0 bless his filial little flock 
And show what good men are. 



She who her lovely offspring eyes 
With tender hopes and fears, 

0, bless her with a mother's joys. 
But spare a mother's tears ! 



Their hope — their stay — their darling youth, 

In manhood's dawning blush — 
Bless him, thou God of love and truth, 

Up to a parent's wish ! 



The beauteous, seraph sister-band, 
.With earnest tears 1 pray. 

Thou know'st the snares on ev'ry hand- 
Guide Thou their steps alway. 



When soon or late they reach that coast, 
O'er life's rough ocean driven. 

May they rejoice, no wanderer lost, 
A family in Heaven ! 



LX. 
TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ., 

MAUCHLINE. 
(RECOMMENDING A 30T.) 

[Verse seems to have been the natural language ol 
Burns. The Master Tootie whoso skill he records, In 8(3 
in Mauchline, and dealt in cows: he was an artful ano 
contriving person, great in bargaining and intimate -vntt 
all the professional tricks bj' which old cows are madt 
to look young, and six-pint hawkisa pass for those of 
twelve.] 

Mossgiel, May 3, 1786. 
I. 
I HOLD it. Sir, my bounden duty, 
To warn you how that Master Tootie, 

Alias, Laird M'Gaun, 
Was here to hire yon lad away 
'Bout whom ye spak the tither day, 

An' wad ha'e done't aff han' : 
But lest he learn the callan tricks. 

As, faith, I muckle doubt him, 
Like scrapin' out auld Cruramie's nicka, 
An' tellin' lies about them ; 
As lieve then, I'd have then, 

Your clerkship he should sair, 
If sae be, ye may be 
Not fitted otherwhere. 



Altho' I say't, he's gleg enough. 

An' bout a house that's rude an' rough 

The boy might learn to swear; 
But then wi' you, he'll be sae taught, 
An' get sic fair example straught, 

I havena ony fear. 

Ye'll catechize him every quirk, 

An' shore him weel wi' Hell ; 

An' gar him follow to the kirk — 

— Ay when ye gang yoursel'. 

If ye then, maun be then 

Frae hame this comin' Friday; 
Then please Sir, to lea'e Sir,. 
The orders wi' your lady. 



My word of honour I hae gien, 

In Paisley John's, that night at e'n, 

To meet the Warld's worm ; 
To try to get the twa to gree. 
An' name the airles' an' the fee, 

In legal mode an' form : 
I ken he weel a snick can draiv, 



I The airles — earnest money. 



Oi^ EGBERT BURNS. 



12C 



When simplt bodies let him ; 
Aji' if a Devil be at a', 
In faith lie'a sure to get him 
To phrase j'ou, an' praise you, 
Ye ken your Laureat scorns : 
The pray'r s+ill, you share still, 
Of grateful Minstkel Burns. 



TO MR. M'ADAM, 

OP CEAIGEN-GILLAN. 

[It seems that Burns, delighted with the praise wnich 
itie Laird of Craigen-Gillan bestowed on his verses, — 
probably the Jolly Beggars, then in the hands of Wood- 
burn, his steward, — poured out this little unpremeditated 
jatural acknowlfidgment.] 

SiK, o'ei a gill I gat your card, ' 

I trow it made me proud ; 
See wha lak's notice o' the bard 

I lap and cry'd fu' loud. 

Now deil-ma-care about their jaw. 

The senseless, gawky million: 
I'll cock my nose aboon them a' — 

I'm roos'd by Craigen-Gillan ! 

'Twas noble, Sir ; 'twas like yoursel , 

To grant your high protection : 
A great man's smile, ye ken fu' we/ 

Is ay a blest infection, 

Tho oy his' banes 's'"-^-" in a tan 

Match'd Ilaf^T'^^ian Sandy 1 
On my air '"cfs thro dirt and dub 

I im? "J ouuent stand ay. — 

fto,'. (Then those legs to gudf wa^m kail, 

^'i' welcome canna bear me ; 
A "^- 5yke-side, a sybow-tail, 

And ^arley-scone shall cheer me. 

f.leaven spare you lang to kiss the breath 

0' many flow'ry simmers ! * 
4.ud bless your bonnie lasses baith, 

I'm tauld they're loosome kimmers ! 

And God bless young Dunaskin's laird. 

The blossom of our gentry ! 
And may he wear an auld man's beard, 

A credit to his country. 



I Diogenes. 



ANSAVER TO A POETICAL EPISTLE 

SENT TO THE AUTHOR BY A TAILOR. 

[The person who in the name of a Tailor took the 
liberty of admonishing Burns about his errors, is gene- 
rally believed to have been William Simps<in, the school- 
master of Ochiltree : the verses seem about *he measure 
of his capacity, and were attributed at the time to hii 
hand. The natural poet took advantage of the mask in 
which the made poet concealed himself, ana rained 
such a merciless storm upon him, as would have extin 
guished half the Tailors in Ayrsliire, and made the 
amazed dominie 

" Strangely fidge and fyke." 

It was first printed in 1801, by Stewart.] 

What ails ye now, ye lousie b — h, 
To thresh my back at sic a pitch ? 
Losh, man ! hae mercy wi' your natch. 

Your bodkin's bauld, 
I didna suffer ha'f sae much 

Frae Daddie Auld 

What the' at times when I grow rouse, 
I gie their wames a random pons 
Is that "* )ugh for you to souse 

Tour servant saf. 
Gae mind your seam, ye priek-the-Ljusej 

An' jag-the-flae. 

King Di»nd o' poetic brief, 

Wroug" t 'mang the lasses sic mischief 

As fi 'a. nis after life wi' grief, 

An' bluidy rants. 
An' yet he's rank'd amang the chief 

0' lang-syne saunts. 

And maybe, Tam, for a' my cants. 
My wicked rhymes, an' druken rants^ 
I'll gie auld cloYen Clootie's haunts 

An unco' slip yet. 
An' enugly sit among the saunts 

At Davie's hip get 

But fegs, the Session says I maun 

Gae fa' upo' anither plan, 

Than garrin lasses cowp the cran 

Clean heels owre bcdy, 
And sairly thole thvlr mither's baii 

Afore the howdy. 

This leads me on, to tell for sport. 
How I did wi' the Session sort. 



130 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



Auld Clinkuia at the fjuner port 


For lack o' thee I've lost my lass, 


Cried three times — "Robin ! 


For lack o' thee I scrimp my glass. 


Come hither, lad, an' answer for't, 


I see the children of affliction 


Ye're blamed for jobbia " 


Unaided^ through thy cursed restricticD 


Wi' pinch I pat a Sunday's face on. 


I've seeu the oppressor's cruel smile 
Amid his hapless victim's spoil : 


Aji' snoov'd away before the Session ; 
i made an open fair confession — 


And for thy potence vainly wished, 
To crush the villain in the dust. 


I scorn'd to lee ; 
In' syne Mese John, beyond expressi«n 
Fell foul o' me. 


For lack o' thee, I leave this much-lov'd shore 
Never, perhaps, to greet old Scotland more. 

B B 


***** 


— 




. LXV. 



TO J. RANKIN E. 

[With the Laird of Adamhill's personal character tlie 
«:iJer is already acquainted: the lady about whose 
frailties the rumour alluded to was about to rise, has not 
been named, and it would neither be delicate nor polite 
o guess.] 

I AM a keeper of the law 

In some sma' points, altho' not a' ; 

Some people tell me gin I fa' 

Ae way or ither. 
The breaking of ae point, though sma', 

Breaks a' thegither. 

I hae been in for't ance or twice. 
And winna say o'er far for thrice, 
iTet never met with that surprise 

That broke my rest, 
But now a rumour's like to rise, 

A whaup's !' *iie nest. 



LINES 



WRITTKN ON 



BANK-NOTE 



fXhe :iank-note on whica these characteristic lines 
•Tftre «oioised, came into the hands of the late James 
Sracie banker in Dumfries: he Ijnew the handwriting 
'>f Burns, and kept it as a curiosity. The concluding 
mes point to the year 1786, as the date of the compo- 
■;t on 1 

Wae worth thy power, thou cursed leaf, 
Fell sourca >' a my woe an' grief; 



A DREAM. 



' Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blame* witi 

. reason ; 
But surely dreams were ne'er indicted treason.' 



On reading, in the pubiic papers, the " Laureate'i 
Ode," with the other parade of June 4, 1786, the uutho 
was no sooner dropt asleep, than he imagined himself 
transported to the birth-day levee ; and in his dreaming 
fancy made the following " Address." 

[The prudent friends of the pbet remon.strated with'hina 
about this Poem, which they appeared to think woula 
injure his fortunes and stop the royal bounty to which ha 
was thought entitled. Mrs. Dunlop, and Mrs. Stewart, 
of Stair, solicited him in vain to omit it in tlie Edinburgh 
edition of his poems. I know of no poem for wiiioh 6 
claim of being prophetic would be so successfully sel 
up : It is full of point as well as of the future. TKe alio 
Eions require no comment.] 

Guid-mornin' to your Majesty ! 

May Heaven augment your blisseft. 
On ev'ry new birth-day ye see, 

A humble p' et wishes ! 
My hardship here, at your levee, . 

On sic a day as this is. 
Is sure an uncouth sight to see, 

Amang thae birth-day dresses 

Sae fine this daj 



I see ye're complimented thrang. 

By many a lord an' lady ; 
" God save the king !" 's a cuckoo sang 

That's unco easy said ay ; 
The poets, too, a venal gang, 

Wi' rhymes weel-turn'd and ready, 
Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang 

But ay unerring steady. 

On sic a day 



()j> Kvbi:.ilT LUil^^S. i3 


For me, before a monarch's face, 


But since I'm here, I'll no neglect, 


Ev'n there I winna flatter ; 


In loyal, true aff'ection, 


For neither pension, post, nor place. 


To pay your Queen, with due respect, 


Am I your humble debtor : 


My fealty an' subjection . 


So, na,- reflection on your grace, 


This great birti-day 


Your kingship to bespatter ; 




There's monie waur been o' the race. 


Hail, Majesty Most Excellent ! 


Ani aiblins ane been better 


While nobles strive to please y., 


Than you this day. 


Will ye accept a compliment 




A simple poet gi'es ye ? 


Ii* rerz rue, my sov'reign king, 


Thae bonnie bairntime, Heav'n hs.9 lent, 


My skill may weel be doubted : 


Still higher may they heeze ye 


But facta are chiels that winna ding. 


In bliss, till fate some day is sent. 


An' downa be disputed : 


For ever to release ye 


Your royal nest beneath your wing. 


Frae care that day. 


Is e'en right reft an' clouted, ' 




And now the third part of the string, 


For you, young potentate o' Wales, 


An' less, will gang about it 


I tell your Highness fairly. 


Than did ae day. 


Down pleasure's stream, wi' swelling sails 




I'm tauld ye're driving rarely ; 


* ar be't frae me that I aspire 


But some day ye may gnaw your nails 


To blame your legislation. 


An' curse your folly sairly, 


Qr say, ye wisdom want, or fire, 


That e'er ye brak Diana's pales, 


To rule this mijjjhty nation. 


Or rattl'd dicf wi' Charlie, 


But faith ! I muckle doubt, my sire, 


By night or day 


Ye've trusted ministration 




To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre. 


Yet aft a ragged cowte's been known 


Wad better fill'd their station 


To mak a noble aiver ; 


Than courts yon day. 


So, ye may doucely fill a throne. 




For a* their elish-ma-claver : 


And now yeve gien auld Britain peace. 


There, him at Agincourt wha shone 


Her broken f»hins to plaister ; 


Few better were" or braver ; 


four sair tayation does her fleece. 


And yet, wi' funny, queer Sir John, 


Till she has scarce a tester; 


He was an unco shaver 


For me, thank God, my life's a lease. 


For monie a day. 


Nae bargain wearing faster. 




Or, faith ! I fear, that, wi' the geese, 


For you, right rev'rend Osnaburg, 


1 shortly boost to pasture 


Nane sets the lawn-Meeve sweeter, 


I' the craft some day, 


Altho' a ribbon at your lug. 


Wad been a dress completer : 


fTQ PC mistrusting Willie Pitt, 


As ye disown yon paughty dog 


When taxes he enlarges. 


That bears the keys of Peter, 


(An' Will's a true guid fallow's get, 


Then, swith ! an' get a wife to hug, 


A naiaie not envy spairges,) 


Or, trouth ! ye'll stain the mitre 


That he intends to pay your debt 


Some luckless day. 


An' lessen a" your charges ; 
But, G-d-sake! let nae saving -fit 




Young, royal Tarry Breeks, I learn, 


Abridge your bonnie barges 


Ye've lately come athwart her ; 


An' boats this day. 


A glorious galley,' stem an' stern. 


Weel rigg'd for Venus' barter; 


Adieu, my Liege I may freedom geek 


But first hang out, that she'll discern 


Beneath your' high protection ; 
An' may ye rax corruption's neck, 


Your hymeneal charter. 


1 Alluding to the newspaper account if a certain royk 


And gie her for dissection ! 


sailor's amour 



Then heave aboard your grapple aim, 
An', large npon her quarter, 

Come full that day. 

Ye, lastly, bonnie blossoms a', 

Ye royal lasses dainty, 
Ueav'n mak you guid as weel as braw, 

An' gie you lads a-j)lenty : 
Dut sneer na British Boys awa'. 

For kings are unco scant ay ; 
An' German gentles are but sma'. 

They're better just than want ay 
On onie day. 

God bless you a' ! consider now, 

Ye're unco muckle dautet; 
But ere the course o' life be thro'. 

It may be bitter sautet : 
An' I hae seen their coggie fou, 

That yet hae tarrow't at it ; 
But or the day was done, I trow, 

The laggen they hae clautet 

Fu' clean that day. 



A BARD'S EPITAPH. 

[This beautiful and afTecting poem was printed in tiie 
Ki.marnock edition: "VVordswovtli writes with his usual 
taste and feeling about it : " Whom did the poet intend- 
Bhimld be thought of, as occupying that grave, over 
whifli, after modestly setting forth the moral discernment 
nnd wnrm affections of the ' poor inhabitant' it is supposed 
to he inscribed that 

' Thoughtless follies laid him low, 

And stained his name !' 
Whc but himself — himself anticipating the but too pro- 
bable termination of nis own course ? Here is a sincere 
fttid solemn avowal — a confession at once devout, poeti- 
cal and human — a history in the shape of a prophecy! 
^Vliat more was '-equirtd of 'he biographer, than to have 
n .t 'I's seal i.-i me writing, testifying that the foreboding 
<8U teen realized and that the record was authentic?"] 

]■« there a whim-inspired fool, 

Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, 

Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool, 

Let him draw near ; 
And owre this grassy heap sing dool. 

And drap a tear. 

Is there a bard of rustic song, 

Wha, noteless, steals the crowds among, 



That weekly this area throng, 

0, f ass not by I 

But with a frater-feeling strong. 

Here heave a sigh. 

Is there a man, whose judgment clear, 
Can. others teach the course to steer. 
Yet runs, himself, life's mad career. 

Wild as the wave ; 
Here pause — and, through the starting tear. 

Survey this grave. 

The poor inhabitant below . 

Was quick to learn and wise to know, 

And keenly felt the friendly glow, 

And softer flame, 
But thoughtless follies laid him low, 

And stain'd his name I 

Reader, attend — whether thy soul 
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole, 
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole, 

In low pursuit ; 
Know, prudent, cautious self-control, 

Is wisdom's root. 



THE TWA DOGS. 

A TALE. 

[Cromek, an anxious and curious inquirer,' informed 
me, that the Twa Dogs was in a half-finished state, whea 
the poet consulted John Wilson, the printer, about the 
Kilmarnock edition. On looking over the manuscripts, 
the printer, with a sagacity common to his profession, 
said, "The Address to the Deil" and '' The Holy Fair" 
were grand things, but it would be »s well to have a 
calmer and sedater strain, to put at the front of the 
volume. Burns was struck with the remark, and on his 
way home to Mossgiel, completed the Poem, and took it 
next day to Kilmarnock, much to the satisfaction of 
"Wee Johnnie." On the 17th of February Burns says 
to John Richmond, of Mauchline, "I have complateil 
my Poem of the Twa Dogs, but have n,;t shown it to the 
world." It is difficult to fix the dates w. h anything lik« 
accuracy, -to compositions which are no^ struck cff at 
one heat of the fancy. " Luath was me of the poet'j 
dogs, which some person had wantonly killed," sayj 
Gilbert Burns; "but Cfflsar was merely the creature of 
the imagination." The Ettrick Shepherd, a judge of 
collies, says that Lnnth is true to the Me, and that man^ 
a hundred times he has seen the dogs bark, for vei7 oy 
when the cottage children were merry.] 

'TwAS in that place o' Scotland's isle 
That bears the name o' Auld King Coil, 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



isa 



JpDii a bonnie day in June, 
When wearing through the afternoon, 
Twa dogs that were na thrang at hame, 
''orgather'd ance upon a time. 
The first 111 name, they ca'd him Caesar, 
Was keepit for his honour's pleasure ; 
Eis hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, 
Show'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs ; 
But whalpit some place far abroad, 
Where sailors gang to fish for cod. 

His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar 

Show'd him the gentleman and scholar; 

But though he was o' high degree, 

The fient a pride -nae pride had he ; 

But wad hae spent an hour caressin', 

Ev'n wi' a tinkler-gypsey's messin'. 

At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, 

Nae tawted tyke, though e'er sae duddie. 

But he wad stan't, as glad to see him. 

And stroan't on stanes and hillocks wi' him. 

The tither was a ploughman's collie, 

A rhyming, ranting, raving billie, 

Wha for his friend an' comrade had him, 

And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him, 

After some dog in Highland sang,' 

Was made lang syne — Lord knows how lang, 

He was a gash an' faithful tyke, 
As ever lap a sheugh or dyke. 
His hoifbst, sonsie, baws'nt face, ' 
Ay gat him friends in ilka place, 
flis breast was white, his touzie back 
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; 
His gaucie tail, wi' upward curl. 
Hung o'er his hurdles wi' a swirl. 

Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither, 

An' unco pack an' thick thegither ; 

Wi' social nose whyles snufi"d and snowkit, 

Whyles mice and moudieworts they howkit ; 

Whyles scour'd awa in lang excursion, 

4.n' worry'd ither in diversion ; 

Until wi' daffin weary grown. 

Upon a knowe they sat them down 

And there began a lang digression 

About the lords o' the creation. 

CESAR. 

I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath, 

What sort o' life poor dogs like you have ; 



1 ( JuchuUin's dog in Ossum's Fingal. 



An' when the gentry's life I saw. 
What way poor bodies liv'd ava. 

Our laird gets in his racked rents. 

His coals, his kain, and a' his stents; 

He rises when he likes himsel' ; 

His flunkies answer at the bell ^ 

He ca's his coach, he ca's his horse ; 

He draws a bonnie silken purse 

As lang's my tail, whare, through the «te«]ui 

The yellow letter'd Geordie keeks. 

Frae morn to e'en its nought but toiling. 
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling; 
An' though the gentry first are stechin, 
Yet even the ha' folk fill their pechan 
Wi' sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrio, 
That's little short o' downright wastrie. 
Our whipper-in, wee, blastit wonner, 
Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner, 
Better than ony tenant man 
His honour has in a' the Ian' ; 
An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, 
I own it's past my comprehension 

LUATH. 

Trowth, Csesar, whyles they're fash't eneu{rli 
A cotter howkin in a sheugh, 
Wi' dirty stanes biggin' a dyke, 
" Baring a quarry, and sic like ; 
Himself, a wife, he thus sustains, 
A smytrie o' wee duddie weans, 
An' nought but his han' darg, to keep 
Them right and tight in thack an' rape. 

An' when they meet wi' sair disasteaS, 
Like loss o' health, or want b' masters, 
Ye maist wad think a wee touch Ig-nger 
An' they maun starve o' cauld and hungei 
But, how it comes, I never kenn'd yet, 
They're maistly wonderfu' contented : 
An' buirdly chiels, an' clever hizziee. 
Are bred in sic a way as this is. 

C^SAK. 

But then to see how ye're negleokit, 
How huff 'd, and cuff'd, and disrespeckit ' 
L — d, man, our gentry care as little 
For delvers, ditchers, an' sic cattle ; 
They gang as saucy by poor folk. 
As I wad by a stinking brock. 

I've notic'd, on our Laird's court-day. 
An' mony a time my heart's been wae, 



,u 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash, 
How they maun thole a factor's snash : 
He'll stamp an' threaten, curse an' swear, 
He'll apprehend them, poind their gear ; 
While they maun stan', wi' aspect humble. 
An' hear it a', an' fear an' tremble ! 

I see how folk live that hae riches ; 
But surely poor folk maun be wretches ! 

LUATH. 

They're no sae wretched's ane wad think; 
Tho' constantly on poortith's brink : 
They're sae accustom'd'wi' the sight. 
The view o't gies them little fright. 
Then chance an' fortune are sae guided, 
They're ay in less or mair provided ; 
An' tho' fatigu'd wi' close employment, 
*A .blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment. 

The dearest comfort o' their lives. 
Their grushie weans, an' faithfu' wives ; 
The prattling things are just their pride^ 
That sweetens a' their fire-side ; 
An' whyles twalpennie worth o' nappy 
Can mak' the bodies unco happy; 
They lay aside their private cares. 
To mind the Kirk and State affairs : 
They'll talk o' patronage and priests ; 
Wi' kindling fury in their breasts ; 
Or tell what new taxation's comin', 
And ferlie at the folk in Lon'on. 

As bleak fac'd Hallowmass returns, 
Aey get the jovial, ranting kirns, 
AVhen rural life, o' ev'ry station, 
Unite in common recreation ; 
Love blinks, Wit slaps, an' social Mirth 
Forgets there's Care upo' the earth. 

That merry day the year begins. 
They bar the door on frosty win's; 
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream, 
An' sheds a heart-inspiring steam 
The luntin pipe, an sneeshin mill. 
Are handed round wi' right guid will , 
f he cantie auld folks crackin' crouse. 
The young anes rantin' thro' the house, — 
My heart has been sae fain to see them, 
That I for joy hae barkit wi' them. 

Still it's owre true that ye hae said. 
Sic game is now owre aften play'd. 
There's raonie a creditable stock 
0' decent, honest, fawsont folk, 



Are riven out baith root and branch, 
Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench, 
Wha thinks to knit himsel' the faster 
In favour wi' some gentle master, 
Wha aiblins, thrang a parliamentin", 
For Britain's guid his saul mdentin' — 

O^SAK. 

Haith, lad, ye little ken about it ! 

I' or Britain's guid ! guid fail h, I doubt it ! 

Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him. 

An' saying, aye oi no's they bid him , 

At operas an' plays parading, 

Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading, 

Or may be, in a frolic daft. 

To Hague or Calais takes a waft, 

To mak a tour, an' tak' a whirl. 

To learn bon ton, an' see the worl'. 

There, at Vienna or Versailles, 

He rives his father's auld entails ; 

Or by Madrid he takes the rout, 

To thrum guitars, an' fecht wi' nowt; 

Or down Italian vista startles, 

Wh-re-hunting amang groves o' myrtles 

Then bouses drumly German water. 

To mak' himsel' look fair and fatter, 

An' clear- the consequential sorrows. 

Love-gifts of carnival signoras. 

For Britain's guid ! — for her destruction 

Wi' dissipation, feud, an' faction. * 

LUATH. 

Hech, man ! dear sirs ! is that the gate 
They waste sae mony a braw estate ! 
Are we sae foughten an' harass'd 
For gear to gang that gate at last ! 

0, would they stay aback frae courts, 
An' please themsels wi' countra sports. 
It wad for ev'ry ane be better. 
The Laird, the Tenant, an' the Ci tter ' 
For thae frank, rantin', ramblin' billies 
Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows ; 
Except for breakin' o' their timmer, 
Or speakin' lightly o' their limmer, 
Or shootin' o' a hare or moor-cock, 
The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor folk. 

But will ye tell me, Master Csesar, 
Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure! 
Nae cauld or hunger e'er can steer thsDi 
The vera thought o't need na fear tbejo 



OF ROBERT BURNS 



13a 



C^SAE. 

Ii- -d, man, were ye but whyles whare I am, 
The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em. 

It's true, they needna starve or sweat. 
Thro' winter's cauld, or simmer's beat; 
They've nae sair wark to craze tbeir banes, 
A.n' fill auld age wi' grips an' granes . 
But human bodies are sic fools, 
For a' their colleges and schools, 
That when nae real ills perplex them. 
They mak enow themsels to vex them ; 
^n' ay the less they hae to stur*- thpm. 
In like proportion, less will hurt them, 

A country fellow at the pleugh, 

His anres till'd, he's right eneugh , 

A coL\ntry girl at her wheel. 

Her dizzen's done, she's unco weel: 

But Gentlemen, an' Ladies warst, 

Wi' ev'n down want o' wark are curst. 

They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy ; 

Tho' derl haet ails them, yet uneasy ; 

Their days insipid, dull, an' tasteless ; 

Their mghts unquiet, lang, an' restless ; 

An' eyen their sports, their balls an' races, 

Their galloping thro' public places. 

There s sic parade, sic pomp, an' art, 

The joy can scarcely reach the heart. 

The men cast out in party matches, 

Then sowther a' in deep debauches ; 

Ae night they're mad wi' drink and wh-ring, 

Niest day their life is past enduring. 

The Ladies arm-in-arm in clusters, 

As great and gracious a' as sisters ; 

But hear their absent thoughts o' ither, 

They're a' run deils an' jads thegither. 

Whyles, o'er the wee bit cup an' platie, 

They sip the scandal potion pretty ; 

Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks 

^ ore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks ; 

Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard, 

in' cheat like onie unhang'd blackguard. 

Th arc's some exception, man an' woman; 
But this is Gentry's life in common. 

By thid, the sun was out o' sight, 
An' darker gloaming brought the night : 
The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone; 
The kye stood rowtin i' the loan; 
When up they gat, and shook their lugs, 
Rejoic'd they were na men, but dogs ; 
An' each took aff his several way, 
RiBsolv'd to meet some ither day. 



LXVIIl. 



LINES 



MEETING WITH LORD DAER. 

["The first time I saw Robert Burns,"' says Dn^zli 
Stewart, "was on the 23d of October, 1?S6, when i» 
dined at ir.y house in Ayrshire, together with our com- 
mon friend, John Mackenzie, surgeon in Mauchhne, to 
whom I am indebted for tlie pleasure of his acjuaint- 
ance. My excellent and much-lamented friend, Jie lat« 
Basil, Lord Uaer, happened to arrive at Catrine the sancia 
day, and, by the kindness and frankness of his manners, 
left an impression on the mind of the poet which was 
never effaced. The verses which the poet wrote on tha 
occasion are among the most imperfect of his pieces, but 
a few stanzas may perhaps be a matter of curiosity, both 
on account of the character to wliich they relate and the 
light which they throw on the situation and the feelings 
of the writer before his name was known to the public." 
Basil, Lord Daer, the uncle of the present Earl of Sal 
kirk, was born in the year 1769, at the family seat of St. 
Mary's Isle : he distinguished himself early at schoo' 
and at college excelled in literature and science ; he he . 
a greater regard for democracy than was then reckoner 
consistent with his birth and rank. He was, when Burnt 
met him, in his twenty-third year; was very tall, some- 
thing careless in his dress, and had the taste and talent 
common to his distinguished family. He died m li'« 
thirty-third year.] 

This wot ye all whom it concerns, 
I, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns, 

October twenty-third, 
A ne'er-to-be-forgotten day, 
Sae far I sprachled up the brae, 

I dinner' d wi' a Lord. 

I've been at druken writers' feasts, 
Nay, been bitch-fou' 'mang godly priests, 

Wi' rev'rence be it spoken : 
I've even join'd the honour'd jorum. 
When mighty squireships of the quorum 

Their hydra drouth did «loken. 

But wi' a Lord — stand out, my shin ! 
A Lord — a Peer — an Earl's fon ! — 

Up higher yet, my bonnet ! 
And sic a Lord ! — lang Scotch ells twa, 
Our Peerage he o'erlooks them a'. 

As I look o'er my sonne+ 

But, oh ! for Hogarth's magic pow'r ! 
To show Sir Bardie's willyart glow'r. 

And haw he star'd and stamme* . 
When goavan, as if led wi' brauks, 
An' stumpan on his ploughman shanks, 

He in the parlour hammer'd 



136 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



I sidling shelter'd in a nook, 
An' at his lordship steal't a look, 

Like BODie portentous omen; 
Except good sense and social glee, 
An' (what surpris'd me) modesty, 

I marked nought uncommon. 

I v^dtch'd tne symptoms o' the great, 
The gentle pride, the lordly state. 

The arrogant assuming ; 
The fient a pride, nae pride had he, 
Nor sauce, nor state, that I could see, 

Mair than an honest ploughma 

Then from his lordship I shall learn. 
Henceforth to meet with unconcern 

One rank as weel's- another ; 
Nae honest worthy man need care 
lo meet with noble youthful Daer, 

For he but meets a brother. 



ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH. 

['• I enclose you two poems," said Burns to his friend 
Chalmers, " which I have carded and spun since I passed 
Glenbuck. One b.ank in the Address to Edinburgh, 
' Fair B — ,' is the heavenly Miss Burnet, daughter to 
Lord Monboddo, at whose house I have had the honour 
to be more than once. There has not been anything 
-learly like her, in a.l the combinations of beauty, grace, 
ind<goodness the great Creator has formed, since Milton's 
Eve, on the first day of her existence." Lord Monboddo 
made liimself ridiculous by his speculations on human 
nature, and acceptable by his kindly manners and sup- 
pers in the manner of the ancients, where his viands were 
(pread under ambrosial lights, and his Falernian was 
wreatiied witn flowers. At these suppers Burns some- 
times made his appearance. Tlie "Address" was first 
punted in the Edinburgh edition : the poet's hopes were 
IietL high, and his compliments, both to town and people, 
ve ! e'egan and happy.] 



Edina ! Scotia's darling seat ! 

Ali hail thy palaces and tow'rs. 
Where once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! 
\From marking wildly-ssa-tter'd floT^'rs, 

As on the banks of Ayr I stray' d, 
^d singing, 'one, the ling'ring hours, 

I shelter in thy honour' d shade. 



Here wealth still swells the golden tide, 

As busy Trade his labour plies ; 
There Architecture's noble pride 

Bids elegance and splendour rise ; 
Here Justice, from her native skies, 

High wields her balance and her rod ; 
There Learning, with his eagle eyes. 

Seeks Science in her coy abode. 

III. 

Thy sons, Edina i social, kind. 

With open arms the stranger hail ; 
Their views enlarg'd, their liberal mind. 

Above the nai'row, rural vale ; 
Attentive still to sorrow's wail. 

Or modest merit's silent claim ; 
And never may their sources fail ! 

And never envy blot their name ! 



Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn, 

Gay as the gilded summer sky. 
Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn. 

Dear as the raptur'd thrill of joy ! 
Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye, 

Heav'n's beauties on my fancy shine ; 
I see the Sire of Love on high. 

And own his work indeed divine I 



There, watching high the least alarms, 

Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar , 
Like some bold vet'ran, gray in arms. 

And mark'd with many a seamy scar : 
The pond'rous wall and massy bar. 

Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock, 
Have oft withstood assailing war. 

And oft repell'd th' invader's shoci. 



With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears 

I view that noble, stately dome, 
Where Scotia's kings of other years," 

Fam'd heroes ! had their royal home: 
Alas, how chang'd the times to come ! 

Their royal name low in the dust ! 
Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam, 

Tho' rigid law cries out, 'twas just ' 



Wild beats my heart to trace your steps, 
Whose ancestors, in days of yore. 



OF ROBEllT EURNS. 137 


Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps 


May still your life from day to day 


Olc' Sc. tia's bloody lion bore : 


Nae "lente largo" in the play, 


Ejt'i I Wlio sing in rustic lore, 


But " allegretto forte" gay 


Haply, my sires bave left their sbed, 


Harmonious flow : 


\iid facd grim danger's loudest roar, 


A sweeping, kindling, bauld strathspey- 


■B-jld-foUowiug where your fathers led I 


Encore! Brave i 


VIII. 


A blessing on the clieery gang 


E iina ! Scotia's darling seat ! 


Wha dearly like a jig or sang. 


All hail thy palaces and tow'rs. 


An' never think o' right an' wrang 


Where once beneath a monarch's feet 


By square an' rule, 


Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! 


But as the clegs o' feeling stang 


Frommarking wildly-scatter'd flow'rs, 


Are wise or fool 


As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd. 




And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, 


My hand-waled curse keep hard in chase 


I shelter in thy honour' d shade. 


The harpy, hoodock, purse-proud race, 


Wha count on poortith as disgrace — 




Their tuneless hearts ! 
May fireside discords jar a base 


« 


LXX. 


To a' their parts ! 


EPISTLE TO MAJOR LOGAN. 


But come, your hand, my careless brither. 




r th' itber warl', if there's anither. 


[Major Logan, of Camlarg, lived, when this hasty- 


An' that there is I've little swither 


Poem was written, with his mother and sister at Park- 


About the matter ; 


liouse, near Ayr. He was a good musician, a joyous 
companion, and something of a wit. The Epistle was 


We cheek for chow shall jog thegither. 


p'inted, for th^ first time, in my edition of Burns, in 1834, 


I'se ne'er bid better. 


t<*d since then no other edition has wanted it.] 




Hail, thairm-inspirin', rattlin' Willie ! 


We've faults and failings — granted clearly, 
We're frail backsliding mortals merely, * 
Eve's bonny squad, priests wyte them sheerlj 

For our grand fa' ; 
But still, but still, I like them dearly— 

God bless them a' 1 


Though fortune's road be rough an' hilly 
To every fiddling, rhyming billie. 


• We never heed, 


But tak' it like the unback'd filly. 


Proud o' her speed. 




When idly goavan whyles we saunter 


Ochon ! for poor Castalian drinkers, 


Firr, fancy barks, awa' we canter 


When they fa' foul o' earthly jinkers, 


(Jphill, down brae, till some mishanter, 


The witching curs' d delicious blin&ers 


Some black bog-hole, 


Hae put me hyte. 


Arrests us, then the scathe an' banter 


And gart me weet my waukrife winkers. 


We're forced to thole. 


Wi' gii-nan spite. 


P. jle be your heart ! Hale be your fiddle ! 


But by yon moon ! — and that's high » wearin*- 


Lacg may your elbuck jink and diddle, 


An' every star within my hearin' ! 


1 1) cheer you through the weary widdle 


An' by her een wha was a dear ane ! 


0' this wild warl', 


I'll ne'er forget; 


Unti; vou on a crummock driddle 


I hope to gie the j ads a clearin' 


A gray-hair'd carl. 


In fair play y«»« 


t7ome wealth, come poortith, late or soon, 


My loss I mourn, but not repent it, 


Heaven send your heart-strings ay in tune, 


I'll seek my pursie whare I tint it. 


And screw your temper pins aboon 


Ance to the Indies I were wonted. 


A fifth or mair, 


Some cantraip bom, 


The melancholious, lazy croon 


By some sweet elf I'll yet be dinted, 


0' cankrie care. 


Then, vive l' amour i 



ibS 



THE POEnCAL WOEKS 



Faites vies baisemains respectueuse, 

To sentimeptal sister Susie, 

K.n' honest Lucky ; no to roose you, 

Ye may be proud, 
That 9'^ a couple fate allows ye 

To grace your blood. 

tTaf mair at present can I measure, 

Ad' trowth my rhymin' ware's nae treasure ; 

Bj't when in Ayr, some half-hour's leisure, 

Be't light, be't dark, 
l^'r Bard will do himself the pleasure 

To call at Park. 

Robert Burns. 
H.^s.-^i'}., BOth October, 1786. 



LXXI. 
THE BRIGS OF AYR, 

A POEM, 
iNSCaiBED TO J. BAILANTTNE, ESQ., AYR. 

[B^jfos took the hint of this Poem from the Planestaoes 
und Oauseway of Fergusson, but all that lends it life and 
fceU:ii{,' bokmgs to his own heart and his native Ayr ■ he 
wrote it fov the second edition of his Poems, and in com- 
pliment to the patrousof his genius in the west. Ballan- 
••yne, to whom the Poem is inscribed, was generous wheo 
the distresses of his farming speculations pressed upon 
him: others of his frien'ds figure in the scene: Mont- 
gomei')''s courage, the learning of Dugald Ste"vvart, anf* 
condescension and kindness of Mrs. General Stewart, 
of Stair, are graiefuily recorded.] 

The simple Bard, roiigh at th<i rustic plough, 
Learning his tuneful trade from ev'ry bough; 
The chanting linnet, or the raellow thrush, 
Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn 

bush ; 
She soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill. 
Or deep-ton'd plovers, gray, wild-whistling o'e. 

the hill ; 
Shall he, nurst in the peasant's lowly shed, 
Tc hardy independence bravely bred, 
By early poverty to hardship steel'd, 
And ti'ain'd to arms in stern misfortune's fic'd — 
Bhall he be guilty of their hireling crimes, , 
The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes ? 
Or labour hard the panegyric close, 
With all the venal soul of dedicating prose t 



No ! though his artless strains he rudel/ siags, 
And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the strings, 
He glows with all the spirit of the Barr^, 
Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear 'reward I 
Still, if some patron's gen'rous care he trace, 
Skill'd in the secret to bestow with gra-ie; 
When Ballantyne befriends his humble name, 
And hands the rustic stranger up to fauia, 
With heartfelt throes his grateful bosoyp swellg, 
The godlike bliss, to give, alone exceU. 



* noted tavern at the auld Brit enu. 



'Twas when the stacks get on their wljiter hap, 
And thack and rape secure the toil-w ai.i crap ; 
Potato-bings are snugged up frae skaith 
Of coming Winter's biting, frosty breath ; 
The bees, rejoicing o'er their summer toils, 
Unnumber'd buds, an' fiow'rs' delicious spoils, 
Seal'd up with frugal care in massive waxen 

piles. 
Are doom'd by man, that tyrant o'er the weak. 
The death 0' devils smoor'd wi' brimstone reek • 
The thundering guns are heard on ev'ry side, 
The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide ; 
The feather'd field-mates, bound by Nature's tie. 
Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie : 
(What warm, poetic heart, but inly bleeds, 
And execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds!) 
Nae mair the flow'r in field or meadow springs ; 
Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings, 
Except, perhaps, the robin's whistling glee, 
Proud 0' the height 0' some bit half-lang tree : 
The hoary morns precede the sunny days, 
Mild, calm,, serene, wide spreads .the noon-tide 

blase. 
While thick t^e gossamer waves wanton in the 

rays. 
'Twas in tha*^ season, when a simple bard, 
Unknown and poor, simnli^ity's reward, 
Ae night, within the ancient hmgh of Ayr, 
By whim inspired, or haply prest wi' care, 
He left his bed, and took his wayward x'out. 
And down by Simpson's' wheel'd the left «bowi; 
(Whether impell'd by all-directing Fate 
To witness what I after shall narrate ; 
Or whether, rapt in meditation high, 
He wander'd out he knew not where nor "shy) 
The drowsy Dungeon-clock,^ had nupiber'd two, 
Ard Wallace Tow'r^ had sworn the fact was true: 
The tid-^-swc^'n Firth, with sullen sounding roar, 
Tt>rough the still night daish'd hoarse along thi 

shore 

« jrh«t twi- «te*pInB. 



OF PtOBEET BURNS. 



I6i 



All else was hush'd as Nature's closed e'e : 
the silent moon shone liigh o'er tow'r and tree : 
The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, 
Crept, gently-crusting, o'er the glittering 
stream. — 

When, lo ! on either hand the list'ning Bard, 

The clanging sugh of whistling wings is heard ; 

Two dusky forms dart thro' the midnight air, 

Swift as the gos ' drives on the wheeling hare ; 

Ane on th' Auld Brig his airy shape uprears, 

The ither flutters o'er the rising'piers : 

Our warlock Rhymer instantly descry'd 

The Sprites that owre the brigs of Ayr preside. 

(That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke. 

And ken the lingo of the sp'ritual folk ; 

Fays, Spunkies, Kelpies, a', they can explain 

them, 
And ev'n the vera deils they brawly ken them.) 
Auld Brig appear'd of ancient Pictish race. 
The very wi-inkles gothic in his face : 
He seem'd as he wl' Time had warstl'd lang, 
Yet, teughly doure, he bade an unco bang. 
New Brig was buskit in a braw new coat. 
That he at Lon'on, frae ane Adams got ; 
In's hand five taper staves as smooth's a bead, 
Wi' vii'ls and whirlygigums at the head. 
The Goth was stalking round "with anxious 

search, 
Spying the time-worn flaws in ev'ry arch ; — 
It chanc'd his new-come neebor took hise'e, 
And e'en a vex'd and angry heart had he ! 
Wi' thieveless sneer to see his modish mien. 
He, down the water, gies him this guid-e'en : — 

AULD BBIG. 

I doubt na', frien', y e'll think ye're nae sheep- 
shank, 
Ance ye were streekit o'er frae bank to bank ! 
But gin ye be a brig as auld as nie, 
Tho' faith, that day I doubt ye'll never see ; 
There'll be,' if that date come, I'll wad a boddle, 
8)me fewer wl!::';meleeries in your noddle. 

NEW BKIG. 

Auld Vandal, ye but show your little mense, 
Just much about it wi' your scanty sense ; 
Will youi- poor, narrow foot-path of a street. 
Where twa wheel-barrows tremble when they 
meet — 

> The gos-hawk or falcon. 

2 A noted ford, just above the Auld Brig. 

3 The banks of Garpal Water is one of the lew places 
tli9 West of Scotland, where those fancy-scaring be- 



Your ruin'd formless hulk o' stane an' lime, 
Compare wi' bonnie Brigs o' modern time ? 
There's men o' taste wou'd tak the DucaV 

•stream,^ 
Tho' they should cast the vera sark and swim.. 
Ere they would grate their feelings wi' th« 

view 
Of sic an ugly, Gothic hulk as you. 

AUID BRia. 

Conceited gowk ! puff'd up wi' ynndy 

pride ! — 
This mony a year I've stood the flood an' tide ; 
And tho' wi' crazy eild I'm sair forfairn, 
I'll be a Brig, when ye're a shapeless cairn ! 
As yet ye little ken about the matter, 
But twa-three winters will inform ye better. 
When heavy, dark, continued a'-day rains. 
Wi' deeponing deluges o'erflow^the plains; 
When from the hills where springs the brawling 

Coil, 
Or stately Lugar's mossy fountains boil. 
Or where the Greenock winds his moorlanJ 

course, 
Or haunted GarpaP draws his feeble source, 
Arous'd by blust'ring winds an' spotting thowc*" 
In mony a torrent down the snaw-broo rowes ; 
While crashing ice born on the roaring speat. 
Sweeps dams, an' mills, an' brigs, a' to the gate ; 
And from Glenbuck,-* down to the Ratton-key,^ 
Auld Ayr is just one lengthen' d tumbling sea- 
Then down ye'll hurl, deil nor ye never rise ! 
And dash the gumlie jaups up to the pouring 
A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost, [skies. 
That Architecture's noble art is lost ! 

NEW BKIG. 

Fine Architecture, trowth, I needs must sa^t 

o't ! 
The L — d be thankit that we've tint the gati 

o't! 
Gaunt, ghastly, ghaist-alluring edifices, 
Hanging with threat'ning jut like precipices; 
O'er-arching, mouldy, gloom-inspii-ing covea. 
Supporting roofs fantastic, stony groves; 
Windows and doors, in nameless sculpture irest, 
With order, symmetry, or taste unblest; 
Forms like some bedlam Statuary's dream, 
The craz'd creations of misguided whim ; 



ings, kno-\vn by the name of Ghaists, still continue pei 
tinaciously to inhabit. 

4 The soaroe of the river Ayr. 

5 A small landing-place above the large key. 



140 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



Forms migl.t be worshipp'd on^he bended knee, 
And still the second dread command be free, 
Their likeness is not found on earth, in air, or 

sea. 
Mansions that would disgrace the building 

taste 
Of any mason reptile, bird or beast ; 
Fit only for a doited monkish race, 
Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace ; 
Or cuifs of later times wha held the notion 
That sullen gloom was sterling true devotion ; 
Fancies that our guid Brugh denies protection ! 
And soon may they expire, unblest with resur- 
rection ! 

AULD BRIG. 

ye, my dear-remember'd ancient yealings. 
Were ye but here to share my wounded feel- 
ings ! 
Ye worthy Proveses, an' mony a Bailie, 
Wha in the paths o' righteousness did toil ay ; 
Ye dainty Deacons and ye douce Conveeners, 
To whom our moderns are but causey-cleaners : 
Ye godly Councils wha hae blest this town; 
Ve godly Brethren o' the sacred gown, 
Wha meekly gie your hurdles to the smiters ; 
And (what would now be strange) ye godly 

writers ; 
A' ye! douce folk I've borne aboon the broo. 
Were ye but here, what would ye say or do ! 
How would your spirits groan in deep vexa- 
tion. 
To see eaca melancholy alteration ; 
And, agonizing, curse the time and place 
When ye begat the base, degen'rate race ! 
Nae langer rev'rend men, their country's glory. 
In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain braid 

story ! 
Nae langer thrifty citizens an' douce. 
Meet owre a pint, or in the council-house ; 
But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless gentry. 
The herryment and ruin of the country ; 
MeiL three parts made by tailors and by bar- 
bers 
Wha flraste your weel-hain'd gear on d — d new 
Brigs and Harbours! 

NEW BKia 

Now haud you there ! for faith ye've said 
enough. 
And muckle mair than ye can mak to through ; 
\.s for your Priesthood, I shall say but little, 
Jorbies and Clergy, are a shot right kittle : 



But under favour o' your langer beard, 

Abuse o' Magistrates might weel be spar'd: 

To liken them to your auld-warld squad, 

I must needs say, comparisons are odd. 

In Ayr, wag- wits nae mair can have a handle 

To mouth ' a citizen,' a term o' scandal ; 

Nae mair the Council waddles down the street, 

In all the pomp of ignorant conceit ; 

Men wha grew wise priggin' owre hops aai 

raisins. 
Or gather'd lib'ral views in bonds and seisins, 
If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp. 
Had shor'd them with a glimmer of his lamp. 
And would to Common-sense for once betray'o 

them, 
Plain, dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid them 



Whi^t farther clishmaclaver might been said. 
What bloody wars, if Spirites 4iad blood to shed, 
No man can tell ; but all before their sight, 
A fairy train appear'd in order bright : 
Adown the glitt'ring stream they featly danc'd; 
Bright to the moon their various dresses glanc'd 
They footed owre the wat'ry glass so neat, 
The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet : 
While arts of minstrelsy among them rung. 
And soul-ennobling bards heroic ditties sung.^ 
had M'Lauchlan,' thairm-inspiring Sage, 
Been there to hear this heavenly band engage, 
When thro' his dear strathspeys they bore with 

highland rage ; 
Or when they struck old Scotia's melting airs. 
The lover's raptur'd joys or bleeding cares ; 
How would his highland lug been nobler fir'd, 
And ev'n his matchless hand with finer touch 

inspir'd ! 
No guess could tell what instrument appear'd. 
But all the soul of Music's self was heard, 
Harmonious concert rung in every part. 
While simple melody pour'd moving on tl.« 

heart. 

The Genius of the stream in front appears 
A venerable Chief advanc'd in years ; 
His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd, 
His manly leg with garter tangle bound. 
Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring. 
Sweet Female Beauty hand in hand with Spring-, 
Then, crown'd with flow'ry hay, came Rural Joy, 
And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye : 



lA well known performer of Scottish mr.Bie on tin 
violin. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



Ul 



All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn, 
|jed yellow Autumn, wreath' d with nodding 

corn; 
Then Winter's time-bleach'd locks did hoary 

show, 
By Hospitality with cloudless brow. 
Next follow'd Courage, with his martial stride, 
From where the Feal wild woody coverts hide ; 
Benevolence, with mild, benignant air, 
A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair : 
Learning and Worth in equal measures trodei 
From simple Catrine, their long-lcv'd abode : 
Last, white-rob'd Peace, crown'd with a hazel 

wreath, 
To rustic Agriculture did bequeath 
The broken iron instruments of death ; 
At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kind- 
ling wrath. 



I'ME DEATH OF ROBERT DUNDAS, ESQ., 

OF ARNISTON, 
LATE LORD PRESIDENT OF THE COURT OE SESSION. 

[At the request of Advocate Hay, Burns composed this 
Poem, in the hope that it might interest the powerful 
family of Dundas in his fortunes. I found it inserted in 
the handwriting of the poet, in an interleaved copy of 
liis Poems, which be presented to Dr. Geddes, accompa- 
nied by the foil-owing surly note : — '• The foregoing Poem 
has some tolerable lines in it, but the incurable wound 
of my pride will not suffer me to correct, or even peruse 
t. I sent a copy of it with my best prose letter to the 
son of the great man, the theme of the piece, by the 
hands of one of the noblest men iii God's world, Alexan- 
der Wood, surgeon: when, behold I his solicitorship 
took no iTkire notice of my Poem, or of me, than I had 
been a strolling fidolerwho had made free with his lady's 
fian;e, for a silly new rsal. Did the fellow imagine that 
I looked for any dirty gratuity?" This Robert Dundas 
was the elder brother of that Lord Melville to whose 
hands, soon after these lines were written, all the govern- 
ment patronage in Scotland was confided, and who, when 
the name of Bums was mentioned, pushed the wine to 
Pitt, and said nothing. The poem was first printed by 
Jie, in OSS'!.] 

Lone on the bleaky hills the straying flocks 
Shun the fierce storms among the sheltering 

rocks ; 
Down frpm the rivulets, red with dashing rains, 
The eathering floods burst o'er the distant plains ; 



Beneath the blasts the leafless forests groau ; 
The hollow caves return a sullen moan. 

Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests and ye caves, 
Ye howling winds, and wintry swelling waves I 
Unheard, unseen, by human ear or eye, 
Sad to your sympathetic scenes I fly ; 
Where to the whistling blast and waters' ro*r 
Pale Scotia's recent wound I may deplore, 

heavy loss, thy country ill could bear ! 
A loss these evil days can ne'er repair ! 
Justice, the high vicegerent of her God, 
Her doubtful balance ey'd, and sway'd her rod 
Hearing the tidings of the fatal blow 
She sunk, abandon'd to the wildest woe. 

Wrongs, injuries, from many a darksome den. 
Now gay in hope explore the paths of men : 
See from this cavern grim Oppression rise, 
And throw on poverty his cruel eyes ; 
Keen on the helpless victim see him fly, 
And stifle, dark, the feebly-bursting cry ? 

Mark ruifian Violence, distain'd with crimes, 
Rousing elate in these degenerate times; 
View unsuspecting Innocence a prey, 
As guileful Fraud points out the erring way: 
*Vhile subtile Litigation's pliant tongue 
The life-blood equal sucks of Right and Wrong* 
Hark, injur'd Want recounts th' unlisten'd tale^ 
And much-wrong'd Mis'ry pours th' unpitied 
wail ! 

Ye dark waste hills, and brown unsightly plains, 
To you I sing my grief-inspired strains: 
Ye tempests, rage ! ye turbid torrents, roll I 
Ye suit the joyless tenor of my soul. 
Life's social haunts and pleasures I resign, 
Be nameless wilds and lonely wanderings mme, 
To mourn the woes my country must endura, 
That wound degenerate ageb cannot curt. 



LXXIII. 

ON BEADING IN A NEWSPAPER 

THE DEATH OF JOHN M'LEOD, E3Q. 

BROTHER TO A TOUNS LADY, A PARTICULAR FRIENB 
OP THE author's. 

[John M'JLeod was of the ancient family of Raza, ana 
brother to that Isabella M'Leod, for whom Burns, ja 
his correspondence, expressed ^reat regard. The little 



142 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



Poem, when first printed, consisted of six verses : I found 
k seventh in the M'Murdo Manuscripts, the fifth in this 
edition, along with an intimation in prose, that the 
M'Leod family had endured many unmerited misfortunes. 
I observe that Sir Harris Nicolas has rejected this new 
rerse, because, he says, it repeats the same sentiment as 
the one which precedes it. I think differently, and have 
Wtainocl it.] 

S4.D thy tale, thou idle page, 

And rueful thy alarms : 
Death tears the brother of her love 

From Isabella's arms. 

Sweetly deck'd with pearly dew 
The morning rose may blow ; 

But cold successive noontide blasts 
May lay its beauties low. 

Fair on Isabella's morn 

The sun propitious smil'd ; 
But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds 

Succeeding hopes beguil'd. 

Fate oft tears the besom chords 

That nature finest strung : 
So Isabella's heart was form'd, 

And so that heart was wrung. 

Were it in the poet's power, 
Strong as he shares the grief 

That pierces Isabella's heart. 
To give that heart relief ! 

Dread Omnipotence, alone, 
Can heal the wound He gave ; 

Can point the brimful grief- worn eyes 
To scenes beyond the grave. 

Virtue's blossoms there shall blow, 
And fear no withering blast ; 

There Isabella's spotless worth 
Shall happy be at last. 



TO MISS LOGA 



riTH BEATTIE'S POEMS FOR A NEW TEAR S GIFT. 
Jan. 1, 1787. 

[Burns kVas fond of writing compliments in books, and 
jiving them in presents among his fair friends. Miss 
tiOgan, of Park house, was sister to Major Logan, of 
Camlarg, and the " sentimental sister Susie," of the 
Epistie to her brother. Both these names were early 
dropped out of the poet's coirsspondenoe.] 



Again the silent wheels of time 
Their annual round have driv'n, 

And you, tho' scarce in maiden primo^ 
Are so much nearer HeaVn. 

No gifts have I from Indian coasts 

The infant year to hail : 
I send you more than Indi'^ ' oasts 

In Edwin's simple tale 

Our sex with guile and faithless love 
Is charg'd, perhaps, too true ; 

But may, dear maid, each lover prove 
An Edwin still to you ! 



THE AMERICiiN WAR. 

A FEAGMENl. 

[Dr. B'sir said that the politics yf Burns smelt of th« 
smithy, which, interpreted, means, that they were un 
statesman-like, and worthy of a country ale-house, an<. 
an audience of peasants. The Poem gives us a striking 
picture of the humorous and familiar way in which the 
hinds and husbandmen of Scotland handle national topics ! 
the smithy is a favcXirite resort, during the winter even- 
ings, of rustic politicians ; and national affairs and parisli 
scandal are alike discussed. Burns was in those days 
and some time after, a vehement Tory : his »4mIratlo« 
of " Chatham's Boy," called down on him t i.v lusty in 
dignation of the republican Ritson.] 

I. 
When Guildford good our pilot st:>oa. 

And did our hellim thraw, man, 
Ae night, at tea, began a plea. 

Within America, man : 
Then up they gat the maskin-pat. 

And in the sea did jaw, man ; 
An' did nae less in full Congress, 

Than quite refuse our law, man 



Then thro' the lakes Montgomery tekM; 

I wat he was na slaw, man; 
Down Lowrie's burn he took a turn. 

And Carleton did ca', man; 
But yet, what-reck, he, at Quebec^ 

Montgomery-like did fa', man, 
Wi' sword in hand, before his band, 

Amang his en'mies a', man. 



OF KOBERT BURNS. 14i 


III. 


While slee Dundaa arous'd the class. 


Poor Tammy Gage, within a cage, 


Be-north the Roman wa', man : 


Was kept at Boston ha', man ; 


An' Chatham's wraith, in heavenly graith. 


Till Willie Howe took o'er the knowe 


(Inspired Bardies saw, man) 


For Philadelphia, man ; 


Wi' kindling eyes cry'd ''Willie, rise! 


Wi' sword an' gun he thought a sin 


Would I hae fear'd them a', man?' 


Guid Christian blood to draw, man: 




But at New York, wi' kni^'o an' fork. 


IX. 


vSir-loin he hacked sma', man. 


But, word an' blow, North, Fox, and Co., 


1 V. 


Gowff'd Willie like a ba', man, 




Till Suthron raise, and const their claise 


Biirgoyne gaed tip, like spur an' whip, 

Till Fraser brave did fa', man, 
Then lost his way, ae misty day. 


Behind him in a raw, man ; 
An' Caledon threw by the drone. 
An' did her whittle draw, man ; 


In Saratoga shaw, man. 


An' swoor fu' rude, thro' dirt an' blood 


Cornwallis fought as lang's he dought, . 


To make it guid in law, man. 


An' did the buckskins claw, man ; 


But Clinton's glaive frae rust to save, 


* * -x * * 


He hung it to the wa', man. 

V. 

Th.en Montague, an' Guilford, too. 




Lxxvn. 


Began to fear a fa', man ; 




And Sackville dour, wha stood the stoure, 


THE DEAN OF FACULTY 


The German Chief to thraw, man ; 


A NEW BALLAD, 


For Paddy Burke, like ony Turk, 




Nae mercy had at a', man ; 


[The Hal and Bob of these satiric lines were Heisrt 
Erskine, and Robert Dundas : and their contention waSj 


In' Charlie Fox threw by the box. 


as the verses intimate, for the place of Dean of the Fa' 


An' lows'd his tinkler jaw, man. 


cuity of Advocates : Erskine was successful. It is sup- 




posed that in characterizing Dundas, the poet remem 


^ ■ 


bered " the incurable wound which his pride had got' 




in the affair of the elegiac verses on the death of the elder " 


Then Rockingham took up the game, 


Dundas. The poem first appeared in the Reliques of 


Till death did on him ca', man ; 


Burns.] 


When Shelburne meek held up his cheek, 




Conform to gospel law, man ; 


I. 


Saint Stephen's boys, wi' jarring noise. 


Dire was the hate at old Harlaw, 


They did his measures thraw, man, 


That Scot to Scot did carry ; 


For North an' Fox united stocks, 


And dire the discord Langside saw 


An' bore him to th« wa', man. 


For beauteous, hapless Mary : 




But Scot with Scot ne'er met so hot. 


VII. 


Or were more in fury seen. Sir, 


Th«» iiubs an' hearts were Charlis's carte% 


Than 'twixt Hal and Bob for the famous joV- 


H' swept the stakes awa', man. 


Who should be Faculty's Dean^ Sir.— 


I'ill the diamond's ace, of Indian race, 




Led him a sair faux pas, man ; 


"• 


The Saxon lads, wi' loud placads, 


This Hal for genius, wit, and lore, 


On Chatham's boy did ca', man ; * 


Among the first was number'd ; 


A.n' Scotland drew her pipe, an' blew, 


But pious Bob, 'mid learning's store. 


" Up, Willie, waur them a', man !" 


Commandment tenth remember' d. — 




Yet simple Bob the victory got, 


VIII. 


And won his heart's desire ; 


Behin(f the throne then Grenville's gone, 


Which shows that heaven can boil the pot» 


A secret word oi twa, man ; 


Though tLe devil p— s in the fire — 



144 



THE POETI'.M L ^'OEKS 



Squire Hal besides had in this case 

Pretensions rather brassy, 
For talents to deserve a place 

Are qualifications saucy ; 
So, their worships of the Faculty, 

Quite sick of merit's rudeness, 
Ch:>se one who should owe it all, d'ye 

To their gratis grace and goodness.- 



As once on Pisgah purg'd was the sight 

Of a son of Circumcision, 
So may be, on this Pisgah height, 

Bob's purblind, mental vision : 
Nay, Bobby's mouth may be open'd yet 

fill for eloquence you hail him. 
And swear he has the angel met 

That met the Ass of Balaam. 



LXXVII. 

TO A LADY, 

WI'! H A. PRESENT OF A PAIR OF DRINKING-GI ASSES. 

[To Mrs. M'Lehose, of Edinburgh, the poet presented 
;he drl iking-g-lasses alluded to in the verses: they are. 
It seemj, still preserved, and the lady on occasions of high 
festiv;il, indulges, it is said, favourite visiters with a 
draught from them of "The blood of Shiraz' scorched 
Tine."] 

Fair Empress of the Poet's soul, 

And Queen of Poetesses ; 
Clarinda, take this little boon. 

This humble pair of glasses. 

And fill them high with generous jviice. 

As generous as your mind ; 
And pledge me in the generous toast — 

" The whole of human kind !" 

" To those who love us !" — second fill ; 

But not to those whom we love ; 
Lest we love those who love not us ! — 

A. third — " to thee and me, love !" 



LXXVIII. 

TO CLARINDA. 

[This is the lady of the drinkmg-glasses ; the Mrs .Mai 
of many a toast among the poet's acquaintances. She 
was, m those days, young and beautiful, and we fear a 
little giddy, since she indulged in that sentimental aati 
platonic flirtation with the poe*-, contaired in tne v<rell« 
known letters to Clannda. The letters, after the poefl 
death, appeared in print withoi\i, her permission : she Oi> 
tained an injunction against ths publication, which still 
remains in force, but her anger seems to ha .e been lesi 
a matter of taste than of whim, for the ii junction, hal 
been altowe 1 to slumber in the case of some eJi.ori» 
though it has leen enforced against others.] 

Clakinda, mistress of my soul. 

The measnr'd time is run! 
The wretch bpx?eath the dreary pole 

So marks his latest sun. 

To what dark cave of f'-o'zen night 

Shall poor Sylvandnr bie ; 
Depriv'd of thee, his lif/» and light, 

The sun of all his joy. 

We part — but, by these precious dr^ips 

That fill thy lovely eyes ! 
No other light shall guide my steps 

Till thy bright beams arise. 



She, the fair sun of all hf>r sex, 
Has blest my glorious day ; 

And shall a glimmering planet "tx 
My worship to its ray? 



VERSES 

WRITTEN tTNDEP rr'l PORTRAIT OF FERGUSSON, THl 
POET, IN A CO^f t F THAT AUTHOR'S WORKS PRB- 
SENTED TO A TO KG LADY. 

[Who the young lady wt-s fo whom the poet presented 
the portrait and Poems of ,^ho ill-fated Fergusson, wf 
have not been told. The vsikcs are dated Edinburgl^j 
March 19th, 1787.] 

Curse on ungrateful man, that can be pleas'd. 
And yet can starve the author of the pleasure 
thou my elder brother in misfortune, 
By far my elder brother in the muses, 
With tears I pity thy unhappy fate ! 
Why is the bard unpitied by the world. 
Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures^ 



UF ROBERT BURNS. 



J 45 



LXXX. 

PROLOGUE 

BPOKEN BY MB.. WOODS ON HIS BENEFIT NIGHT, 
Monday, 16 April, 1787, 

[TheWooas forwlimn this Prologue was written, was 
In those days a popular actor in Edinburgh. He had 
other claims on Burns : he had been the friend as well 
as comrade of poor Fergusson, and possessed some 
poetical talent He died in Edinburgh, Deceniuer 14th, 
1802 .J 

When by a generous Public's kind acclaim, 
TbQ.t dearest meed is granted — honest fame; 
When here your favour is the actor's lot. 
Nor even the man in private life forgot ; 
What breast so dead to heavenly virtue's glow. 
But heaves impassion'd with the grateful throe ? 

Poor is the task to please a barbarous throng, 
ft needs no Siddons' powers in Southerne's song; 
But here an ancient nation fam'd afar, 
For genius, learning high, as great in war- - 
Hail, Caledonia, name for ever de'ir ! 
Before whose sons I'm honoured to appexr ! 
Where every science — every noblrr art — 
That can inform the mind, or ratyS the heart, 
Is known ; as grateful nations o^' 'jave found 
Far as the rude barbarian marVj Ae bound. 
Philosophy, no idle pedant dre^/ft. 
Here holds her search by h?'j' i/i-taught Rea- 
son's beam; 
Here History Jkaints, with r^' 'ca.nce and force, 
The tide of Empires' fluotvVuig course; 
Here Douglas forms wild 'Viskspeare into plan. 
And Harley' rouses all th^i jrjd in man. 
When well-form'd taf te and sparkling wit unite. 
With manly lore, or female beauty bright, 
(B-eauty, where faukless symmetry and grace, 
Can only charm as in the second place,) 
Witness my heart, how oft with panting fear, 
As on this night, I've met these judges here ! 
But still the hope Experience taught to live, 
Equal to judge — you're candid to forgive 
Nor Imndred-hoaded Riot here we meet, 
With decency and law beneath his feet: 
Nor Insolence assumes fair Frop.lom's name; 
Like Caledonians, you appia^id or blame. 

Thou dread Power! whose E'ppire-giving hand 
Has oft been stretch'd f.o Thield the houour'd 
land ! 



Strong may she glow with all her ancient fire* 
May every son be worthy of his sire ; 
Firm may she rise with generous disdain 
At Tyranny's, or direr Pleasure's chain; 
Still self-dependent in her native shore, 
Bold may she brave grim Danger's loudest ii*ai 
Till Fate the curtain drop on worlds to be nv 
more. 



LXXXI. *• • 

SKETCH. 

[This Sketch is a portion of a long Poem which m» 
proposed to call '' The Poet's Progress." He coDimuns. 
cated tlie little he had done,. for he was a courter of 
opinions, to Dogald Stewart. " The Fragment forms,'' 
said he, "the postulata, the axioms, the definition of a 
cliaracter, which, if it appear at all, shaL be placed in a 
variety of lights. This particular part I H'liid you,'merelr 
as a sample of my hand at pc. 'rait-sket'" ing." It is pro- 
bable that the professor's resj. "'nse v '.a' not favourable 
for we hear no ;nore of the Poeni.] 

A LITTLE, upright, pert, tart tripping wight, 
And still his precious self liis dear delight; 
Who loves his own smart shadow in the streetc 
Better than e'er the fai^dst she he meets : 
A man of fashion, too he made his tour, 
Learn'd vive la baga'.elle, et vive I'amour: 
So travell'd monk«/s their grimace improve, 
Polish th"eir gri^^, nay, sigh for ladies' love. 
Much specious lore, but little understood ; 
Veneering jft outshines the solid wood : 
His solid sense — by inches you must tell, 
But r&.ete his cunning by the old Scots ell ; 
H'.o meddling vanity, a busy fiend. 
Still making work his selfish craft must mend 



T 



S C 1 '1 



1 The Mail of Pee.iT'si- by Mackenzie. 



OF WAUCHOPL. 

[Tne lady to whom this epistle is addressed was t 
painter and a poetess : her pencil sketches are said ti 
have been beautiful ; and she had a ready skill in rhyme, 
as the verses addressed to Burns fully testily. Taste ani] 
poetry belonged tD her family : she was the niece of Mrs. 
Coctburn, authoress of a ^<.-';ti<"-'l variation of The 
Flowers of the Forest.] 

I MIND it weel in early date, 
When I was beardless, young and blate, 
An' first could thresh the barn; 



U6 



THE POETICAL WOKKS 



Ot baud a yokin at the pleugh ; 
Au tlio' forfoughten sair enough, 

Yet unco proud to learn : 
When first amang the yellow coru 

A man I reckon'd was, 
An' wi' the lave ilk merry morn 
Could rank my rig and lass, 
Still ehearing. and clearing, 
' The tither stocked raw, 
Wi' claivers, an' haivers, 
Wearing the day awa. 

E'en then, a wish, I mind its pow'r, 
A wish that to my latest hour 

Shall strongly heave my hreast. 
That I for poor auld Scotland's sake 
Some usefu' plan or beuk could make, 

Or sing a sang at least. 
The rough burr-thistle, spreading wide 

Amang the bearded bear, 
1 turn'd the weeder-clips aside. 
An' spar'd the symbol dear : 
No nation, no station, 

My envy e'er could raise, 
A Scot still, but blot still, 
I knew nae higher praise. 

But still the elements o' ?ang 

In formless jumble, right an' wrang, 

Wild floated in my brain ; 
'Till on that har'st I said before. 
My partner in the merry core. 

She rous'd the forming strain : 
I see her yet, the sonsie quean, 

That lighted up her jingle, 
Her witching smile, her pauky een 
That gart my heart-strings tingle : 
I fired, inspired. 

At every kindling keek, 
But bashing and dashing 
I feared aye to speak. 

Health to the sex., ilk guid chiel says, 
Wi' merry dance in winter days. 

An we to share in common : 
The gust o' joy, the balm of woe. 
The saul o' life, the heaven below, 

Is rapture-giving woman. 
Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name, 

Be mindfu' o' your mither : 
f he, honest woman, may think shame 

That ye're connected with her. 



Te're wae men, ye're nae men 
That slight the lovely dears 

To shame ye, disclaim ye, 
Ilk honest birkie swears. 

For you, no bred tc barn and byre, 
Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre, 

Thanks to you for your line : 
The marled plaid ye kindly spare, 
By me should gratefully be ware ; 

'Twad please me to the nine. 
I'd be mair vauntie o' my hap. 

Douce hingin' owre my curple 
Than ony ermine ever lap. 
Or proud imperial purple. 

Fareweel then, lang heel then, 

An' plenty be your fa' ; 
May losses and crosses 
Ne'er at your hallan ca'. 



EPISTLE TO WILLIAM CREECH 

[A Btorm of rain detained Burns one day, during hi« 
border tour, at Selkirk, and lie employed his fime iis 
writing this characteristic epistle to Creech, his hook- 
seller. Creech was a person of education and tTste he 
was not only the most popular publisher in the ncrtii, 
but he was intimate with almost all the distinguished 
men who, in those days, adorned Scottish literature. 
But though a joyous man, a lovei ofisociality, and th« 
keeper of a good table, he was close and pariimpniouSi 
and loved to hold money to the last moment that the law 
allowed.] 

Selkirk, 13 Mai/, 1787. 
Auld chukie Reekie's* sair distrest, 
Down droops her ance weel-burnisht creflt, 
Nae joy her bonnie buskit nest 

Can yield ava, 
Her darling bird that she lo'cs best 

Willie's awa ! 

Willie was a witty wight. 

And had o' things an unco slight: 

Auld Reekie ay he keepit tight. 

An' trig an' braw: 
But new they'll busk hei like a fright, 

Willie's awa ! 

The stifi'est o' them a' he bow'd; 
The bauldest o' them a' he cow'd ; 



OF EGBERT BUENS. 



141 



J'hey durst nae mair tha^ he allow'd, 

That was a law ; 
•Vc'ye lost a birkie weel worth gowd, 


May I be slander's common speech ; 
A text for infamy to preach ; 
And Ubily, streekit out to bleach 


Willie's awa ! 


In winter snaw ; 


Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks, and fools, 
Prae colleges and boarding-schools, 


TITien 1 fo->e!. thee ! AVillie Creech, 
Tho' far awa ! 



May sprout like simmer puddock stools 

In glen or sTiaw ; 
d i wba could brush them down to mools, 

W'Uie's awa! 

The brethren o' the Oommerce-Chaumer' 
May mourn their Ions wi' doofu' clamour ; 
He was a dictionar and grammar 
Amang them a' ; 
I fear they'll now mak mony a stammer, 
I Willie's awa! 

Nae mair we see his levee door 
Philosophers and poets pour,^ 
And toothy critics by the score 

In bloody raw ! 
The adjutant o' a' the core, 

Willie's ,awa ! 

Now worthy Gregory's Latin face, 
Tytler's and Greenfield's modest grace ; 
Mackenzie, Stewart, sic a brace 

As Rome n'er saw; 
They a' maun meet some ither place, 

Willie's awa ! 

Poor Burns — e'en Scotch drink canna quicken, 
He cheeps like some bewilder'd chicken, 
Bcar'd frae its minnie and the cleckin 

By hoodie-craw ; 
Grief's gien his heart an unco kickin', 

Willie's awa! 

Now ev'ry sour-mou'd girnin' blellum, 
JLnd Calvin's fock are fit to fell him ; 
ind self-conceited critic skellum 

His quill may draw ; 
He wha could brawlie ward their bellum, 

Willie's awa! 

[Jp wimpling stately Tweed I've sped, 
^nd Eden scenes on crystal Jed, 
^nd Ettrick banks now roaring red. 

While tempests blaw ; 
But every joy and pleasure's fled, 

Willie's awa ! 

1 The Chamber of Commerce in Edic. ;rgh, of wiicl 
lr**3lE was Secretary 



May never wicked fortune touzle him ! 
May never wicked man bamboozle him . 
Until a pow as auld's Methusalem 

He caaty claw ! 
Then to the blessed New Jerusalem, 

Fleet wing awa ! 



KVMBLh ."UTITION OF BRUAR WATEK 

TO THE 

Nt-BLE DUKE OF ATHOLE. 

[The Falls of Bruar in Alhole are exceedingly beau- 
tiful and picturesque ; and their effect, when Burn« 
visited them, was much impaired by want of shrubs and 
trees. This was in 1787 : the poet, accompanied by hia 
future biographer, Professor-Walker, went, when close 
on twilight, to this romantic scene : " he threw himself," 
said the Professor, "on a heathy seat, and gave himself 
up to a tender, abstracted, and voluptuous enthusiasn: 
of imagination. In a few days I received a letter from 
Inverness, for the poet" had gone on his way, with the 
Petition enclosed." His Grace of Athole obeyed the 
injunction : the picturesque points are now crowned 
with thriving woods, and the beauty of the Falls is much 
increased.] 



Mt Lord, I know your noble ear 

Woe ne'er assails in vain ; 
Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hear 

. Your humble slave complain, 
How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams 

In flaming summer-pride, 
Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams. 

And drink my crystal tide. 



The lightly-jumpin' glowrin' trouts, 
That thro' my waters play, 

If, in their random, wanton spouts, 
They near the ?pargin stray: 



2 Many literary gentlemen w^ere accustomad to 
at Mr. Creech's house at breakfast. 



148 



THE POETICAL WOkKl 



If, hapless chance ! they linger lang, 

I'm scorching up so shallow, 
They're left the whitening stanes amang, 

In gasping death to wallow. 



Last day I grat wi' spite and teen, 

As Poet Burns came by, 
That to a bard I should be seen 

Wi' half my channel dry : 
A panegyric rhyme, I ween, 

Even as I was he shor'd me ; 
But had I in my glory been. 

He, kneeling, wad ador'd me. 



Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks, 

In twisting strength I rin ; 
There, high my boiling torrent smokes, 

Wild-roaring o'er a linn : 
Enjoying large each spring and well, 

As Nature gave them me, 
I am, altho' I say't mysel', 

Worth gaun a mile to see. 



Would then my noble master please 

To grant my highest wishes. 
He'll shade my banks wi' tow'ring tr€«g. 

And bonnie spreading bushes. 
Delighted doubly then, ray Lord, 

You'll wander on my banks. 
And listen mony a grateful bird 

Return you tuneful thanks. 



The sober laverock, warbling wild. 

Shall to the skies aspire ; 
The gowdspink, music's gayest child, 

Shall sweetly join the choir : 
The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear 

The mavis mild and mellow ; 
The robin pensive autumn cheer. 

In all her locKs of yellow. 



This, too, a covert shall insure 

To shield them from the storm ; 
And coward maukin sleep secure, 

Low in her grassy form : 
Here shall the shepherd make his seat, 

To weave his crown of flow'rs ; 
Or find a shelt'ring safe retreat 

From prone-descending shoVrs. 



And ^ert y sw&at, endeaiing itedth 

Sha'.L i«.eet the loving pair, 
Despising worlds with all thei^ wealth 

As empty idle care, 
ihe flow'rs shall vie in all- their ebamoi 

The hour of heav'n to grace, 
And Dirks extend their fragrant a«TOf» 

To screen the dear embrace 



Here haply too, at vernal dawn, 

Some musing bard may stray, 
And eye the smoking dewy lawn, 

And misty mountain gray ; 
Or, by the reaper's nightly beam. 

Mild-chequering thro' the trees, 
Eave to my darkly-dashing stream, 

Hoarse-swelling on the breeze. 



Let lofty firs, and ashes cool. 

My lowly ^anks o'erspread, 
And view, d'j ip-bending in the pool. 

Their shadjws' wat'ry bed! 
Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest 

My craggv clilfs adorn ; 
And, for the Uttle songster's nest. 

The close rmbow'ring thorn. 



So may old •" »otia's darling hope, 

Your littl( '-ngel band, 
Spring, like ''eir fathers, up to prop 

Their honor-'d native land ! 
So may thro' A''bion's farthest ken. 

To social-flow'ng glasses, 
The grace be — "Athole's honest men. 

And Athole's bonnie lasses ?" 



ON SCARING SOME WATER-FOVi 

IN LOCH-TUKIT. 

[When Burns wrote hese touching lines, he was utay- 
ing with Sir William Murray, of Ochtertyre, during ont 
of his. Highland tours. Loch-Turit is a wild lake among 
the recesses of the hill ,and was Welcome froraits one 
liness to the heart of the poet.] 

Why, ye tenant? of the lake, 
For me your wat'ry haunt forsake ? 
Tell me, fellow-creatures, why 
At my presence thus you fly ? 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



Ua 



Why disturb your social joys, 
Parent, filial, kindred ties ? — 
Common friend to you and me, 
Nature's gifts to all are free ; 
Peaceful keep your dimpling wave, 
Busy feed, or wanton lave : 
Or. beneath the sheltering rock. 
Bide the surging billow's shock. 

Conscious, blushing for our race, 
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace. 
Man, your proud usurping foe, 
Would be lord of all below : 
IMumes himself in Freedom's pride, 
lyrant. stern to all beside. 

The eagle, from the cliffy brow. 

Marking you his prey below. 

In his breast no pity dwells. 

Strong necessity compels : 

But man, to whom alone is giv'n 

A ray direct from pitying heav'n. 

Glories in his heart humane — 

And creatures for his pleasure slain.. 

In these savage, liquid plains, 
Only known to wa.nd'ring swains, 
Where the mossy riv'let strays. 
Far from human haunts and ways ; 
All on Nature you depend, 
And life's poor season peaceful spend 

Or, if man's superior might 
Dare invade your native right. 
On the lofty ether borne, 
Man with all his pow'rs yoi. scorn 
Swiftly seek, on clanging wings. 
Other lakes and other springs ; 
And the foe you cannot brave, 
Scorn at least to be his slave. 



LXXXVl. 

rVRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, 

jm THE CHIIINEY-PIECE, IN THE PARLOUR OF THE 
INN AT KENMORE, TAYMOUTH. 

[The .-.astle of Taymouth is the' residence of the Earl 
i{ Breadall.ane : it is a magnificent structure, contains 
nany fine paintings : has some splendid old trees and 
omantic scenery.] 

\DMiKti4Q Natui^ in her wildest grace, 

These northern sceae" with we^ry fs et I trace ; 



O'er many a winding dale and painful steep, 
Th' abodes of covey' d grouse and timid sheep, 
My savage journej', curious I pursue, 
'Till fam'd Breadalbane opens to my view. — 
The meeting clilfs each deep-sunk glen lividt^, 
The woods, wild scatter'd, clothe their ampl« 

sides ; 
Th' outstretching lake, embosom'd 'mcng Ui« 

hills. 
The eye with wonder and amazement fills , 
The Tay, meand'ring sweet in infant pride, 
The palace, rising on its verdant side ; 
The lawns, wood-fring'd in Nature's nativ* 

taste ; 
The hillocks, dropt in Nature's careless haste : 
The arches, striding o'er the new-born stream ; 
The village, glittering in the noontide beam — 



Poetic ardours in my bosom swell. 

Lone wand'ring by the hermit's mossy cell : 

The sweeping theatre of hanging woods ; 

Th' incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods- 



Here Poesy might wake her heav'n-taugh* 

lyre. 
And look through Nature with creative fire ; 
Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconcil'd. 
Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander 

wild ; •« 

And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds. 
Find balm to soothe her bitter — rankling 

wounds : 
Here heart-struck Grief might * heav'nward 

stretch her scan. 
And injur'.I Worth forget and pardon man. 



WRITTEN WITH A PEjNClli 

STANDING BY THE FALL t)F F'J ER6 

NEAR LOCH-NKSS 

[This is one of the many fine scenes, in the Cflltif 
Parnassus of Ossian: but when Pains saw it, the High 
land passion of the stream was abated, for there haC 
been no rain for some time to swell and send it pourinc 
down its precipices in a way worthy of the scene. The 
descent of the water is about two hundred feet, Therfl 
is anc\ v Hall further up the stream, very wild an.) 



(50 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



lavage, on wlu 'n the Fyers makes three prodigious leaps 
into !i deep gulf where nothing can be seen for the whirl- 
ing foam and agitated mist.] 

Among the heathy hills and ragged woods 
The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods ; 
Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds, 
Where, thro' a shapeless breach, his stream re- 
sounds, • 
As high in air the bursting torrents flow, 
As deep-reebiling surges foam below, 
fi-one down the rock the whitening sheet de- 
scends, 
And viewless Echo's ear, astonish'd, rends. 
Dim seen, through rising mists and ceaseless 

show'rs, 
The hoary cavern, wide surrounding, low'rs. 
Still thro' the gap the struggling river toils, 
And still below, the horrid cauldron boils — 



LX XXVIII. 

POETICAL ADDRESS 

TO MR. W. TYTLER, 

WITH THE PRESENT OF THE BAED's PICTFKE. 

[When these verses were vyitten there was much 
Btalely Jacobitism about Edinburgli, and it is likelv that 
Tytler, who laboured to dispel the cloud of calumny 
wliich hung over the memory of Queen Mary, had a 
tearii'g tbat way. Taste and talent have now descended 
'n the Tyllers through three generations: an uncommon 
Event in families. The present edition of the Poem has 
been completed from the original m the poet's hand- 
writing.] 

Reveued defender of beauteous Stuart, 
Of Stuart, a name once respected, 

A name, which to love, was once mark of a true 
heart, 
But now 'tis despis'd and neglected. 

thtj something like moisture conglobes in my eje., 

Let no one misdeem me disloyal; 
A poor friendless wand'rer may well claim a 
sigh, 

iStill more, if that wand'rer were royal. 

Vly fathers that name have rever'd on a throne, 
Mj' fathers have fallen to right it ; 

"hose fathers would spurn their degenerate son, 
Thfii naire should he scoffingly slight it. 



Still in prayers for King George I most heartil, 
join. 

The Queen and the rest of the gentry, 
Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine 

Their title's avow'd by my country. 

But why of that epocha make such a fuss, 

That gave us th' Electoral stem ? 
If bringing them over was lucky for us, 

I'm sure 'twas aS lucky for them. 

But loyalty truce ! we're on dangerous ground, 
Who knows how the fashions may alter ? 

The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty sound, 
To-morrow may bring as a halter. 

I send you a trifle, the head of a bard, 
A trifle scarce worthy your sare ; 

But accept it, good Sir, as a mark of regard 
Sincere as a'saint's dying prayer. 

Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your eye 
And ushers tne long dreary night : 

But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky. 
Your course to the laiest is bright. 
***** 



WRITTEN IN 

P'RIARS-CARSE HERMITAGE, 

ON THE BANKS OF NITH. • 

June, 1T88. 
[first copy.] 

[The interleaved volume presented by Burns to Di. 
Geddes, has enabled me to present the reader with thi 
rough draught of this truly beautiful Poem, the first- 
fruits perhaps of his intercourse with the muses of Nitfc 
side.] 

Thou whom chance may hither lead, 
Be thou clad in russet weed. 
Be thou deck"d in silken stole. 
Grave these maxims on thy soul 
Life is but a day at most. 
Sprung from night, in darkness lost , 
Day, how rapid in its flight — 
Day, how few must see the night ; 
Hope not sunshine every hour. 
Fear not clouds will always lower. 
Happiness is but a name. 
Make content and ease thy aim. 



OF ROBEKT BURNS. 15\ 


Ambition is a meteor gleam ; 


Hope not sunshine ev'ry hour. 


Fame, a restless idle dream : 


Fear not clouds will always lour. 


Pleasures, insects on the wing 


As Youth and Love with sprightly danct 


Round Peace, the tenderest flower of Spring ; 


Beneath thy morning star advance, 


Those that sip the dew alone, 


Pleasure with her siren air 


Make the butterflies thy own ; 


May delude the thoughtless pair : 


Those that would the bloom devour, 


Let Prudence bless enjoyment's cup, 


Crush the locusts — save the flower. 


Then raptur'd sip, and sip it up. 


Far the future be prepar'd, 




&uard wherever thou canst guard ; 
But, thy utmost duly done. 
Welcome what thou canst not shun. 


As thy day grows warm and high, 
Life's meridian flaming nigh. 
Dost thou spurn the humble vale ? 


Follies past, give thou to air, 
Make their consequence thy care : 


Life's proud summits would'st thou scaled 
Check thy climbing step, elate. 
Evils lurk in felon wait : 


Keep the name of man in mind, 
And dishonour not thy kind. 
Reverence with lowly heart 
Him whose wondrous work thou art ; 




Dangers, eagle-pinion'd, bold. 
Soar around each cliffy hold, 


While cheerful peace, with linnet song, 


Keep His goodness still in view, 


Chants the lowly dells among. 


Thy trust — and thy example, too. 


As the shades of ev'ning close. 


Stranger, go ! Heaven be thy guide ! 


Beck'ning thee to long repose ; 
As life itself becomes disease. 


Quod the Beadsman on Nithsida. 


Seek the chimney-nook of ease.. 




There ruminatje, with sober thought. 




On all thou'st seen, and heard, and wrought 




And teach the sportive younkers round, 


XC. 


. Saws of experience, sage and sound. 




Say, man's true genuine estimate, 


WKITTEN IN 


The grand criterion of his fate, 


f RIARS-CARSE HERMITAGE, 


Is not^Art thou high or low ? 


ON NITHSIDE.. 


Did thy fortune ebb or flow ? 


. December, 1788. 


Wast thou cottager or king ? 




Peer or peasant ? — no such thing ! 


[Of this Poem Burns thought so well that he gave 


Did many talents gild thy span ? 


away many copies in his own handwriting : I have sasn 


Or frugal nature grudge thee one ? 


.-hrae. When corrected to his mind, and the manuscripts 


Tell them, and press it on their mind 


ihowed many changes and corrections, h") pu„.isiicQ ,t 




in the new edition cf his Poems as it stands in this second 


As thou thyself must shortly find, . 


copy. The little Hermitage where these lines were 


The smile or frown of awful Heav'n, 


written, stood in a lonely plantation belonging to the 


To virtue or to vice is giv'n. 


estate of Friars-Carse, and close to the march-dyke of 


Say, to be just, and kind, and wise. 


Ellisl.?nd; a small door in the fence, of which flie poet 




had ta 3 key, admitted Jiim at pleasure, and there he found 


There solid self-enjoyment lies ; 


M elusion su.'h as he liked, with flowers and shrubs all 


That foolish, selfish, faithless ways 


fr .-aitfi bira. Ths. first twelve 'ines of the Poem were 


Lead to the wretched, vile, s..ad bas« 


•agra/ed neatly on one of the window-panes, by the 




di.-moc':) pencil of tlie bard. On Riddel's death, the 


Thus, resign'd and quiet, creep 


Bermitage was allowed to go quietly to decay : I remem- 


To the bed of lasting sleep ; 


»«.r in 1S03 turning two outlyer stots out of the interior.] 


Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'ei awake. 


^ Thoh whom chance may hither lead, 


Night, where dawn shall never break. 


Be thou clad in russet weed. 


Till future life, future no more. 


Be thou deck'd in silken stole, 


To light and joy the good restore, 


Grave these counsels on thy soul. 


To light and joy unknown before. 


Life is but a day at most. 


Stranger, go ! Hea'vn be thy guide I 


Sprung from night, in darkness lost ; 


Quod the beadsman of Nithside 




XCI. 
TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL, 

OF GLENRZDDEL. 
B,XTiHI-ORE LINES ON RETURNING A NEWSPAPER. 

[xjititfin Riddel, the Laird of Friars-Carse, was 
B&'niB neighbour, at Eilisland : he was a kind, hospi- 
»h,e man, and a good antiquary. The "News and 
.ieviaw ' which he sent to the poet contained, I have 
•eartt, some sharp strictures on his works: Burns, with 
.is usuil strong sense, set the proper value upon all 
eontemporary criticism; genius, he knew, had nothing 
io fear from the folly or tlie malice of all such nameless 
" chippers and hewers." He demanded trial by his peers, 
Bnd V here were such to be found ?] 

Eilisland, Monday Evening. 
Yov& news and review, Sir, I've read through 
and through. Sir, 
With little admiring or blaming ; 
The papers are barren of home-news oi- foreign, 
No murders or rapes worth the naming. 

Our friends, the reviewers, those chippers and 
hewers, 

Are judges of mortar and stone. Sir, 
0ut of meet or unmeet in Si, fabric complete, 

I'll' boldly pronounce they are none, Sir. 

My goose-quill too rude is t® tell all your good- 
ness 

Bestow'd on your servant, the Poet ; 
Would to God I had one like a beam of the sun, 

And then all the world. Sir, should know it ! 



A MOTHER'S LAMENT 

For. THE DEATH OF HER SON. 

[" The Mother's Lament," says the poet, in a copy of 
U.e verses now before me, "was composed partly with 
II view to Mrs. Fergusson of Craigdarroch, and partly to 
Jhe worthy patroness of my early unknown muse, Mrs. 
iMwart, of Afton. "] 

Fate gave the word, the arrow sped, 

And pierc'd my darling's heart ; 
And with him all the joys are fled 

Life can to me impart. 
By cruel hands the sapling drops, 

In dust dishonour'd laid : 
So fell the pride of all my hopes, 

My age's future shade. 



The mother-linnet in the brake 

Bewails her ravish'd young ; 
So I, for my lost darling's sake, 

Lament the live day long. 
Death, oft I've fear'd thy fatal blo» 

Now» fond I bare my biaast, 
0, do thou kindly lay me low 

With him I love, at rest ! 



FIRST EPISTLE 

TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ. 

OF FINTRAY. 

[In his manuscript copy of this Epistle the poet says 
" accompanying a request." What the request was tha 
letter which enclosed it'reiates. Graham was one of tha 
leading men of the Excise in Scotland, and had promised 
Burns, a situation as exciseman: for this the poec nad 
qualified himself; and as he began to dread that farming 
would be unprofit;;ble, he wrote to remind his patron of 
his promise, and requested t.o be appointed to a division 
in his own neighbourhood. He was appointed in due 
time : his division was extensive, and included ten 
parishes.] 

When Nature her great master-piece designed, 
And frara'd her last, best work, the human mind, 
Her eye intent on all the mazy plan, 
She form'd of various parts the various man. 

Then first she calls the useful many forth ; 
Plain plodding industry, and sober worth : 
Thence peasants, farmers, native sons of earth, 
And merchandise' whole genus take their birth: 
Each prudent cit a warm existence iinds. 
And all mechanics' many-.apron'd kinds. 
Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet, 
The lead and buoy are needful to the net ; 
The caput mortuum of gross desires 
Makes a material for mere knights aaid squires 
The martial phosphorus i^ taught to flow, 
She kneads the lumpish philosophic dough. 
Then marks th' unyielding mass with grave df 

signs. 
Law, physic, politics, and deep divines 
Last, she sublimes th' Aurora of the poles. 
The flashing elements of fem9,le souls. 

The order'd system fair before her stood, 
Nature, well pleas'd, pronounc'd it vefy good; 
But ere she gave creating labour o'er. 
Half-jest, she tried one curious labour more. 



OF IlOBEilT EURNS. 



15b 



Borne spumy, fieiy, ignis fatuus matter, 
Fucli as the sliglitest breath of air might scat- 
ter; 
Witk arct alaiority and conscious glee 
'Natur: may have her whim as well as we, 
Hei H./garth-art perhaps she meant to. show it) 
She fori!i3 the thing, and chi-istens it — a Poet. 
Cre.vture tho' oft the prey of care and sorrow, 
R'h n blest to-day, unmindful of to-morrow. 
A being 'form'd t'aniuse his graver friends, 
^dmir'd and prais'd — and there the homage 
ends : 
mortal quite unfit for fortune's strife, 
Tet oft the sport uf all the ills of life ; 
Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give, 
\ et haply wanting wherewithal to live ; 
Jjonging to wipe each tear, to heal each groan, 
Yet frequent all unheeded in his own. 

But honest Nature is not quite a Turk, 

She laugh'd at first, then felt for her poor 

work. 
Pitying the propless climber of mankind, 
She cafit about a standard tree to find ; 
Vnd, to support his helpless woodbine state, 
Attach'd him to the generous truly great, 
A title, and the only one I claim, 
To lay strong hold for help on bounteous Graham. 

Pity the<tuneful muses' hapless train, 
Weak, timid landsmen on life's otormy main ! 
T.ieir hearts no selfish stern absorbent stuff, 
That never gives — tho' humbly takes enough ; 
The little fate allows, they share as soon, 
Unlike sage proverb'd wisdom's hard-wrung 

, boon. 
The world were blest did bliss on them depend. 
Ah. that " the friendly e'er should want a 

friend !" 
Let pru ience number o'er each sturdy son 
Who life and wisdom at one race begun. 
Who feel by reason and who give by rule, 
flustinct's a brute, and sentiment a fool !) 
iVbo make poor -xill do wait upon / should — 
VS' s own they're prudent, but who feels they're 

good ? 
r«. wise ones, hence ! ye hurt the social eye ! 
3od's image rudely etch'd on base alloy ! 
But come ye who the godlike pleasure know. 
Heaven's attribute distinguished — to bestow ! 
Whose arms of love would grasp the human race : 
Come thou who giv'st with all a courtier's grace ; 
Friend of my life, true patron of my rhymes ! 
J* 'op of ri'i^ dearest hopes for future times 



Why shrinks my soul half blushing, half afraid, 
Backward, abash'd to ask thy friendly aid? 
I know my need, I know thy giving hand, 
I crave thy friendship at thy kind command ; 
But there are such who court the tuneful nine — 
Heavens ! should the branded character ba 

mine ! 
Whose verse in manhood's pride sublimely 

flows. 
Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose. 
Mark, how their lofty independent spirit 
Soars on the spurning wing of injur'd merit! 
Seek not the proofs in private life to find ; 
Pity the best of words should be but wind! 
So to heaven's gates the lark's shrill song as 

cends, 
But grovelling on the earth the carol ends. 
In all the clam'rous cry of starving want, 
They dun benevolence with shameless front: 
Oblige them, patronize their tinsel lays, 
They persecute you all your future days ! 
Ere my poor soul such deep damnation stain, 
My horny fist assume the plough again ; 
The pie-bald jacket let me patch once more : 
On eighteen-pence a week I've liv'd before. 
Tho', thanks to Heaven, I dare even that las< 

shift! 
I trust, meantime, my boon is in thy gift : 
That, plac'd by thee upon the wish'd-for height, 
Where, man and nature fairer in her sight, 
My muse may imp her wing for some sublimei 

flight. 



ON THE DEATH OF 

SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR 

[I found these lines wi'itten with a pencil in one o? 
Burns's meraorandura-books : he snid he had jast eoiti" 
posed them, and pencilled them down lest they should 
escape from his memory. They differed in nothing from 
the printed copy of the first Liverpool edition. That 
they are by Burns there cannot be a doubt, though they 
were, I know not for what reason, excluded from sevflra, 
editions of the Posthumous Works of the poet.] 

The lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare, 

Dim, cloudy, sunk beneath the western wave; 
Th' inconstant blast howl'd thro' the darkening 

air, . 
r And hollow whistled in the rocky care. 



154 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



Lone as I wander'd by each cliff and dell, 
Once the lov'd haunts of Scotia's royal train;' 

Or mus'd where limpid streams once hallowed 
well,2 
Oi mould'iing ruins mark the sacred fane. 3 

Th' increasing blast roared round the beetling 
wocks, 
tat ilouds, swift-wing'd, flew o'er the starry 
sky, 
Ihe groaning trees untimely shed their locks, 
And shooting meteors caught the startled eye. 

The paly moon rose in the livid east, 

And 'mong the cliffs disclos'd a stately form, 

In weeds of woe that frantic beat her breast, 
And mix'd her wailings with the raving storm. 

Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, 

'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I view'd : 

Her form majestic droop' d in pensive woe, 
The lightning of her eye in tears imbued. 

Revers'd that spear, redoubtable in war, 
Eeclined that banner, erst in fields unfurl'd, 

That like a deathful meteor gleam'd afar, 
And brav'd the, mighty monarchs of the 
world. — 

" My patriot son fills an untimely grave !" 
With accents wild and lifted arms — she cried; 

" Low lies the hand that oft was stretch'd to save, 
" Low lies the heart that swell'd with honest 
pride. 

"A weeping country joins a widow's tear. 
The helpless poor mix with the orphan's cry; 

The drooping arts surround their patron's bier, 
And grateful science heaves the heart-felt sigh ! 

* I saw my sons resume their ancient fire ; 

I saw fair freedom's blossoms richly blow : 
But ah ! how hope is born but to expire ! 
Relentless fate has laid their guardian low. 

'• My patriot falls, but shall he lie unsung, 
While empty greatness saves a worthless name ! 

No ; every muse shall join her tuneful tongue, 
And future ages hear his growing fame. 

" And I will join a mother's tender cares. 
Thro' future times to make his virtues last; 

rtat distant years may boast of other Blairs !" — 
She said, and vanish' d with the sweeping blast. 



1 Tne King's Park, at Holyrood-house. 

2 St. Anthony's Well. 



XCV. k 

EPISTLE TO HUGH PAEKER. 

[This little lively, biting epistle was addressed to onl 
of the poet's Kilmarnock companions. Hugh Park«1 
was the brotlier of William Parker, one of the asb- 
Bcribers to the Edinburgh edition of Burns's Poems : li4 
has been dead many years : the Epistle 'vas eovered, 
luckily, from his papers.; and printed fo tiie hrst time l| 
1834.] 

In this strange land, this uncouth clime, 
A land unknown to prose or rhyme ; 
Where words ne'er crost the muse's heckles 
Nor limpet in poetic shackles : 
A land that prose did never view it. 
Except when drunk he stacher't thro' it, 
Here, ambush'd by the chimla chejek. 
Hid in an atmosphere of reek, 
I hear a wheel thrum i' the neuk, 
I hear it — for in vain I leuk. — 
The red peat gleams, a fiery kernel, 
Enhusked by a fog infernal : 
Here, for my wonted rhyming raptures, 
I sit and count my sins by chapters ; 
For life and spunk like ither Christians, 
I'm dwindled down to mere existence, 
Wi' nae converse but Gallowa' bodies, 
Wi' nae kend face but Jenny Geddes.* 
Jenny, my Pegasean pride ; 
Dowie she saunters down Nithside, 
And ay a westlin leuk she throws. 
While tears hap o'er her auld brown nose ! 
Was it for this, wi' canny care, 
Thou bure the bard through many a shire 1 
At howes or hillocks never stttmbled, 
And late or early never grumbled ? — 
had I power like inclination, 
I'd heeze thee up a constellation, 
To canter with the Sagitarre, 
Or loup the ecliptic like a bar ; 
Or turn the pole like any arrow ; 
Or, when auld Phoebus bids good-morroWj 
Down the zodiac urge the race 
And cast dirt on his godship's face ; 
For I could lay my bread and iail 
-'He'd ne'er cast saut upo' thy tail. — 
Wi' a' this care and a' this grief, 
And sma,' sma' prospect of relief, 
And nought but peat reek i' my head. 
How can I write what ye can read? — 
Tarbolton, twenty-fourth o' June, 
Yell fin \ me in a better tune ; 

3 St. Anthony's Chap«l. 
♦ His mare. 



OF ROBERT BURNS 



15 



But till -ve meet and weet our whistle, 
Tak *W« excuse for nae epistle. 

Robert £ubn8. 



LINES 

INTENDED TO BE WRITTEN TJNDES 

A NOBLE EaEL'S PICTURE. 

Barus pla^ied I'je noi trans of Dr. Blacklock anoi the 
F.art of Glencairn, over iiis panour chimney-piece at 
KUislaDd : oeneatli the head of the latter he wTOte some 
«rerses, which he sent to the Earl, and requested leave to 
make public. This seems to have been refused ; and, as 
the verses were lost for years, it was believed they were 
destroyed : a rough copy, however, is preserved, and is 
low in the safe keeping of the Earl's name-son, Major 
James Glencairn Burns. James Cunningham, Earl of 
Glencairn, died 20th January, 1791, aged i2 years : he was 
lucceeded by his only and childless brother, with whom 
his ancient race was closed.] 

Whose is that noble dauntless brow ? 

And whose that eye of fire ? 
And whose that generous princely mien, 

E'en rooted foes admire ? 
Stranger ! to justly show that brow, 

And mark that eye of fire, 
Would take Sis hand, whose vernal tints 

His other works inspire. 

Bright as a cloudless summer sun, 

With stately port he moves ; 
Uis guardian seraph eyes with awe 

The noble ward he loves — 
Among th' illustrious Scottish sons 

That chief thou may'st discern; 
Mark Scotia's fond returning 

It dwells upon Glencairn. 



XCVII. 

ELEGY 
ON THE YEAR *88 

SKETCH. 

[Tiiia Pceai vas liri-t printed by Stewart, in 1801. The 
»oet loved to inaaige in such sarcastic sallies: it is full 
if character, and reflects a distinct image of those yeasty 
tmas ) 

For Lords or Kings I dinna mourn, 
E'en let them die — for that they're born, 



But oh! prodigious to reflec' ! 
A Towmont, Sirs, is gane to wreck ? 
Eighty-eight, in thy sma' space 
What dire events ha'e taken place ! 
Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us ' 
In what a pickle thou hast left us ! 

The Spanish empire's tint a-head. 
An' my auld teethless Bawtie's dead ; 
The tulzie's sair 'tween Pitt and Fox, 
And our guid wife's wee birdie cocks ; 
The tane is game, a bluidie devil, 
But to the hen-birds unco civil : 
The tither's something dour o' treadin', 
But better stuff ne'er claw'd a midden— 
Ye ministers, come mount the pu'pit, 
An' cry till ye be hearse an' roupet, 
For Eighty-eight he wish'd you weeL 
An' gied you a' baith gear an' meal ; - 
E'en mony a plack, and mony a peck. 
Ye ken yoursels, for little feck ! 

Ye bonnie lasses, dight your e'en, 
For some o' you ha'e tint a frien' ; 
In Eighty-eight, ye ken, was ta'en. 
What ye'll ne'er ha'e to gie again. 

Observe the very nowt an' sheep, 

How dowf and dowie now they creep ; 

Nay, even the yirth itsel' does cry, 

For Embro' wells are grutten dry. 

Eighty- nine, thou's but a bairn, 

An' no owre auld, I hope, to learn ! 

Thou beardless boy, I pray tak' care. 

Thou now has got thy daddy's chair, 

Nae hand-cuff'd, mizl'd, hap-shaclird Regen^ 

But, like himsel' a full free agent. 

Be sure ye follow out the plan 

Nae waur than he did, honest man ! 

As muckle better as ye can, 

January 1, 17^& 



XCVIII. 

ADDRESS TO THE TOOTHACHE, 

[" 1 had intended," says Burns to Creech, 30tL iJfay, 
1789, "to have troubled you with a long letter, imX a 
present the delightful sensation of an omnipotent tooth- 
ache so engrosses all my inner man, as to put it out of mj 
power even to write nonsense ." The poetic Address to th* 
Toothache seems to belong to this period.] 

My curse upon thy venom'd stang. 
That shoots my tortur'd gums alang ; 



Lu6 



THE POETICAL WOKKS 



Ami thro' my lugs gies mony a twang, 

Wi' gnawing vengeance ; 

Teaiing my nerves wi' bitter pang, 

Like racking engines ! 

W^hen fevers burn, or ague freezes, 
Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes ; 
Our neighbours' sympathy may ease us, 

Wi' pitying moan ; 
But thee — thou hell o' a' diseases. 

Ay mocks our groan i 

Adown my beard the slavers trickle ! 
I kick the wee stools o'er the mickle, 
As round the fire the giglets keckle, 

To see me loup ; 
While, raving mad, I wish a heckle 

Were in their doup. 

0' a' the num'rous human dools, 

111 har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools, 

Or worthy friends rak'd i' the mools, 

Sad sight to see ! 
The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools, 

Thou bears't the gree. 

Where'er that j)lace be priests ca' hell, 
Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell. 
And ranked plagues their numbers tell, 

In dreadfu' raw, 
Thou, Toothache, surely bear'st the bell 

Amang them a' ! 

thou grim mischief -making chiel. 
That gars the notes of discord squeel, 
'Till daft mankind aft dance a reel 

In gore a shoe-thick I — 
Gie' a' the faes o' Scotland's weal 

A towmond's Toothache. 



XCIX. 
ODE 

SACBED TO THE MEMGKT OF 

MRS. OSWALD, 

OF *irCHENCRTJIVE. 

[The origin of this harsh effusion shows under what 
*olings Burns soTiefimes wrote. He was, he says, on 
kiB way to Ayrshire, one stormy clay in January, and had 
tftie himself comfortable, in spite of the snow-drift, over 
I smoking b'-vl, at an im at the Sanquliar, when in 
•rteeled the whole ' inerij pageantry of Mrs. Oswald 



He was obliged to mount his horse and ride for quan«n 
to New Cumnock, where, over a good fire, he penned, in 
his very ungallant indignation, the Ode to the lady's n^- 
mory. He lived to think better of the name.] 

Dweller in yon dungeon dark, 
Hangman of creation, mark ! 
Who in widow-weeds appears. 
Laden with unhonoured years, 
Noosing with care a bursting purse, 
Baited with many a deadly curse ? 

STROPHE. 

View the wither'd beldam's face — 

Can thy keen inspection trace 

Aught of Humanity's sweet melting grace ? 

Note that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows, 

Pity's flood there never rose. 

See these hands, ne'er stretch'd to save, 

Hands that took — but never gave. 

Keeper of Mammon's iron chest, 

Lo, there she goes, unpitied and unblest' 

She goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest . 

ANTISTROPHE. 

Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes, 

(Awhile forbear, ye tort'ring fiends ;) 

Seest thou whose step, unwilling hither bend«|> • 

No fallen angel, hurl'd from upper skies ; 

'Tis thy trusty quondam mate, 

Doom'd to share thy fiery fate, 

She, tardy, hell-ward plies. 



And are they of no more avail. 

Ten thousand glitt'ring pounds a-year ? 

In other worlds can Mammon fail, 

Omnipotent as he is here ? 

0, bitter mock'ry of the pompous bier, 

While down the wretched vital part is driv'n ! 

The cave-lodg'd beggar, with a conscience cleat, 

Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to Htiiav'n. 



FKAQMBNT INSCRIBED 

'TO THE RIGHT HON. C. J. FOX 

[It was late in life before Burns began to think vet> 
highly of Fox : he had hitherto spoken of him rather ui 
a rattler of dice, and a frequenter of soft company, thaj 
ai a statesman. As his hopes from the Tones vanished 




= THE TOOTHACHE. 



OF ROBEKT BURNS. 



lb, 



i>« bejan to think of the Wh gs : the first did nothing, 
and the latter held out hopes; and as hope, he said, was 
the eord''il of the human heart, he continued to hope on.] 

How wisdom and folly meet, mix, and unite ; 
How virtue and vice blend their black and their 

white ; 
How genius, th' illustrious <^ather of fiction, 
Confounds rule and law, reconciles contra- 
diction — 
I sing : if these mortals, the critics, should bustle, 
I care not, not I — let the critics go whistle ! 

But now for. a patron, whose name and whose 

glory 
At once may illustrate and honour my story. 

Thou first of our orators, first of our wits ; 
Yet whose parts and acquirements seem mere 

lucky hits ; 
With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so 

strong, ' 

No man with the half of 'em e'er went far wrong ; 
With passions so potent, and fancies so bright. 
No man with the half of 'em. e'er went quite 

right ;— 
A sorry, poor misbegot son of the muses, 
For using thy name oifers fifty excuses. 

Good L — d, what is man ? for as simple he 
looks. 
Do but try to develope his hooks and his crooks ; 
With his depths and his shallows, his good and 

his evil, " 
All in all he's a problem must puzzle the devil. 

On his one ruling passion Sir Pope hugely la- 
bours, , 

That, like th' old Hebrew walking-switch, eats 
up its neighbours ; 

Mankind are his show-box — a friend, would you 
know him ? 

Pull the string, ruling passion the picture will 
show him. 

What pity, in rearing so beauteous a system, 

One trifling particular, truth, should have miss'd 
•him ; 

For spite of his fine theoretic positions. 

Mankind is a sciencie defies definitions. 

Bome sort all our qualities each to its tribe. 
And think human nature they truly describe ; 
Have you found this, or t'other? there's more 

in the wind, 
^s bf one drunken fellow his comrades you'll 

tind 



But such is the flaw, or the depth of the plnn, 
In the make of that wonderful creature, call'd 

man, 
No two virtues, whatever relation they claim, 
Nor even two difPerertt shades of the same, 
Though like as was ever twin brother to brother 
the one shall imply you've the other 



But truce with abstraction, and truce with a 

muse, 
Whosie rhymes you'll perhaps, Sir. ne'er deigH 

to peruse: 
Will you leave your justings, your jars and youJ 

quarrels. 
Contending with Billy for proud-nodding laure's 
My much-honour'd Patron, believe your poor 

poet, 
Your courage much more than your prudencf 

you show it ; 
In vain with Squire Billy, for laurels you struggle, 
He'll have them by fair trade, if not, he will 

smuggle ; ■ 
Not cabinets even of kings would conceal 'em, 
He'd up the back-stairs, and by G — he wouW 

steal 'em. • , 

Then feats like Squire Billy's you ne'er ca» 

achieve 'em ; 
It is not, outdo him, the task is out-thi.ove him, 



CI. 

ON SEKING 

A WOUNDED H.VP .R 

LIMP BY ME, 



WHICH A FELLOW HAT) JtTST 



-It" 



[This Poem is founaeu on faet. .\ voung n ar ■< tta 
name of Thomson told me — quite uncoiiscjnus ■• i ins 
existence of the Poem— that while Burns lived at niin 
land — he shot at and hurt a hare, which in the tvvi.tjM 
was feeding on his fatlier's wheat-brend The r>o€*:i ^.n 
observing the hare come bleeding past him, "was iS 
great ■wrath," said Thomson, "and cur.sed me, ai:i 3svsl 
little hindered him from throwing me into the Nith • asL 
he was able enough to do it, though I "Was botli '■•cimg 
and strong." The boor of Nithside did not use the hais 
worse than the critical Dr. Gregory, of Edinburgh, nssi 
the Poem: when Burns read liis remarks he said, " Ri* 
gory is a good man, but he crucifies me !"] 

Inhuman man ! curse on thy barb'rous art, 
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye; 
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh, 

Nor ever pleasure dad thy cruel heart. 



158 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



• 
Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field ! 
The bitter little that of life remains : 
No more the thickening brakes and verdant 
plains 


But what dy'e think, my trusty fier, 
I'm turn'd a gauger — Peace be here 1 
Parnassian queans, I fear, I fear, 

Ye'll now disdain m« I 


To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield. 
Beek, mangl?i wretch, some place of wonted 


And then my fifty pounds a year 

Will little gain me. 


rest, 


Ye glaiket, gleesomfe, dainty damies, 



No more of rest, but now thy dying bed ! 
The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head, 
The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest. 

Oft as by wini^ing Nith, I, musing, wait 
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn ; 
I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, 

And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hap- 
less fate. 



TO DE. BLACKLOCK, 

IN ANSWER TO A LETTER. 

[This blind scholar, though an indifferent Poet, was an 
excellent and g-enevous man: he was foremost of the 
Edinburgh literati to admire the Poems of Burns, pro- 
aaote their fame, and advise that the author, instead of 
Bhipping himself for Jamaica, should come to Edinburgh 
tnd publish a new edition. The poet reverenced the name 
»f Thomas B'l cklock to the last hour of his life. — Henry 
<Iaekenzie, the Earl of Glencairn, and the Blind Bard, 
leere his three favourites.] 

Ellisland, 21st Oct\l%^. 
Wow, but your letter made me vauntie ! 
And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie ? 
I kenn'd it still your wee bit j auntie 

Wad bring ye to : 
Lord send you ay as weel's I want ye, • 

And then ye'll do. 

The ill-thief blaw the heron south ! 
And never drink be near his drouth ! 
He tauld mysel' by word o' mouth. 

He'd tak my lettei 
I lippen'd to the chief in trouth, 

Aod bade nae better. 

But aiblins honest Master Heron, 
Had at the time some dainty fair one, 
To ware his theologic care on, 

And holy study ; 
kxM tir'd »' sanls to waste his lear on 

E'en tried the body 



Wha, by Castalia's wimplin' streamies, 
Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbiea, 

Te ken, ye ken. 
That Strang necessity supreme is 

'Mang sons o' men. 

I hae a wife and twa wee laddies, * 
They maun hae brose and brats o' dudaies; 
Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is — 

I need na vaunt. 
But I'll' sued besoms — thraw saugh woodies, 

Before they want. 

Lord help me thro' this warld o' care ! 
I'm weary sick o't late and air ! 
Not but I hae a richer share 

Than mony ithers; 
But why should ae man better fare, 

And a' men britheis? 

Come, firm Resolve, take thou the van, 

Thou stalk o' carl-hemp in man ! 

And let us mind, faint-heart ne'er wan 

A lady fair : 
Wha does the utmost that he can, 

Will whyles do mair. 

But to conclude my silly rhjme, 

(I'm scant o' vense, and scant o' time,) 

To make a ijappy hre-side clime 

To weans and wife, 
That'p tii« true pathos and sublime 

Of human life 



My compliments to sister Beckie ; 
And eke the same to honest Lucky, 
I wat she is a dainty chuckle. 

As e'er tread clay ! 
And gratefully, my guid auld cockle, 

I'm yours 'for ay, 

Egbert Borh* 



OF ROBERT BURNS 



15V 



cni. 

DELIA. 

AN OBE. 



Lliiese versos were first prirted in the Star 
per, ir May, 1789. It is said that one day a friend laad 
to the poet some verses from the Star, composed on the 
Ifatteni of Pope's Song, by a Person of Quality. " These 
liaes are bej'ond you," he added: " the muse of Kyle 
eaiuot match the muse of London." Burns mused a 
flBoraant, and then recited " Delia, an Ode."] 

Fair the face of orient day, 
Fair the tints of op'ning rose, 
But fairer still my Delia dawns, 
More lovely far her beauty blows. 

Sweet the lark's wild-warbled lay, 
Sweet the tinkling rill to hear; 
But, Delia, more delightful still 
Steal thine accents on mine ear. 

The flow'r-enamoured busy bee 
The rosy banquet loves to sip ; 
Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse 
To the sun-brown'd Arab's lip ; — 

But, Delia, on thy balmy lips 
Let me, no vagrant insect, rove ! 
0, let me steal one liquid kiss ! 
For, oh ! my soul is parch'd with love. 



OIV. 

TO JOHN M'MURDO, ESQ. 

j.f::)hn M'Murdo, Esq., one of the chamberlains of the 
Duke of Queensberry, lived at Drumlanrig: he was a 
aigh-minded, warm-hearted man, and much the friend 
VI' tir 3 -^^ et. These lines accompanied a present of books : 
ptners were added soon afterwards on a pane of glass in 
lira fn.anii^ castle. 

" Blest be M'Murdo to his latest day ! 
No envious cloud o'ercast his evening ray; 
No wrinkle furrowed by the hand of care, 
Nor ever sorrow add one Rilver hair ! 
O may no won the father's honour stain. 
Nor ever daughter give the mother pain." 
5ow fully the poet's wishes were fulfilled need not be 
(nld to anyone acquainted with the family.] 

0, COULD I give thee India's wealth, 

As I this trifle send ! 
Because thy joy in both would be 

To share them with a friend. 



But golden sands did never grace 

The Heliconian stream ; 
Then take what gold could never buy- 

An honest Bard's esteem. 



CV. 



PROLOGUE, 

. SPOKEN AT THE THEATRE, DUMFBIK8, 

1 Jast. 1:90. 

[This prologue was written in December, 1789, for 
Mr. Sutherland, who recited it with applause in tha 
little theatre of Dumfries, on new-year's night. Si! 
Harris Nicolas, however, has given to EUisland the 
benefit of a theatre ! and to Burns the whole barony o( 
Dalswinton for a farm !] 

No song nor dance I bring from yon great city 
That queens it o'er our taste — the more's the 

pity: 
Tho', by-the-by, abroad why will you roam ? 
Good sense and taste are natives here at home : 
But not for panegyric I appear, 
I come to wish you all a good new year ! 
Old Father Time deputes me here before ye, 
Not for to preach, but tell his simple story : 
The sage grave ancient cough'd, and bade me 

say, 
"You're one year older this important day." 
If wiser too — he hinted some suggestion, 
But 'twould be rude, you know, to ask the ques- 
tion; 
And with a would-be roguish leer and wink, 
He bade me on you press this one word — 
"think!" 

Ye sprightly youths, quite flush'd with hopt 

and spirit. 
Who think to storm the world by dint of merit, 
To you the dotard has a deal to say. 
In his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way; 
He bids you mind, amid your thoughtless rattle, 
That the first blow is ever half the battle: 
That tho' some by the skirt may try to snatoi 

him, 
Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him ; 
That whether doing, suffering, or forbearing, 
You may do miracles by persevering. 

] Last, tho' not ''east in love, ye youttful fa't, 
[ Allelic forms, high Heaven's peculiar care i 



160 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



To you old Bald-pate smooths his wrinkled brow, 
A.ud humbly begs you'll mind the important 

now! 
To crown your happiness he asks your leave, 
And offers bliss to give and to receive. 

For o"r sincere, tho' haply weak endeavours, 
With grateful pride we own your many favours, 
And howsoe'er our tongues may ill reveal it, 
i&elieve our glowirg bosoms truly feel it. 



CVI. 

SCOTS PROLOGUE, 
FOE MR. Sutherland's benefit night, 

• DUMFRIES. 

[Burns did not shine in prologues: he produced some 
vigorous lines, but they did not come in harmony from 
lis tongue, like tlie songs in which he recorded the love- 
liness of the dames of Caledonia. Sutherland was 
Hanager of the theatre, and a writer of rliymes. — Burns 
said his players were a very decent s<?t: he had seen 
tnem an evening or two.] 

What needs this din about the towi? o' ^ip^'on. 
How this new play an' that new sang is comiV ? 
Why is outlandish stuff sae raeikle courted ? 
Does nonsense mend like .whiskey, when im- 
ported ? 
Is there nae poet, burning ke'^n for fame, 
Will try to gie us songs and p'ays at hame? 
For comedy abroad he need ns^e toil, 
A fool and knave are plants of every soil ; 
Nor need he hunt as far as E,ome and Greece 
To gather matter for a serious piece ; 
There's themes enough in Caledo-nian story, 
Would show the tragic muse in a' her glory. 

Is there no daring bard will rise, and tell 
How glorious Wallace stood, how hapless fell? 
Where are the muses fled that could produce 
A drama worthy o' the name o' Bruce ; 
How here, even here, he first unsheath'd the 

sword, 
'Gainst mighty England and her guilty lord, 
And after mony a bloody, deathless doing, 
Wrench' d his dear country from the jaws of ruin? 
for a Shakspeare or an Otway scene, 
To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Queen! 
Tain all th' omnipotence of female charms 
Qainsi headlong, ruthless, mad Rebellion's 

arms. 



She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman, 

To glut the vengeance of a rival woman ; 

A woman — tho' the phrase may seem uncivil— 

As able and as cruel as the Devil ! 

One Douglas lives in Home's immortal page, 

But Douglases were heroes every age : 

And tho' your fathers, prodigal of life, 

A Douglas follow'd to the martial strife, 

Perhaps if bowls row right, and right succeeds 

Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads ! 

As ye hae generous done, if a' the land 
Would take the muses' servants by the hand ; 
Not only hear, but patronize, befriend them. 
And where ye justly can commend, commend 

them ; 
And aiblins when they winna stand the test, 
Wink hard, and say the folks hae done their best 
Would a' the land do this, then PU be caution 
Ye'U soon hae poets o' the Scottish nation, . 
Will gar fame blaw until her trumpet crack, 
And warsle time, an' lay him on his back ! 
For us and for our stage should ony spier, 
" Whase aught thae chiels maks a' this bustl* 

here 1" 
My best leg foremost, Pll set up my brow. 
We have the honour to belong to you ! 
'(Ye're your ain bairns, e'en guide us as ye like. 
But like good mithers, shore before ye strike. — • 
i^nd gratefu' still I hojje ye'll ever find us. 
For a' the patronage and meikle kindness 
We've got frae a' professions, sets, and ranks : 
God help vs ! we're but poor — ye'se get bu( 

thanks' 



SKETCH 

NEW YEAR'S I>AY. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP 

[This is a picture of the Danlop family : it was printea 
from a hnsfy sketch, which the poet called extempore 
Tl:e major whom it mention's, was General Andrew 
Donlop, who died in 1804 : Rachel Dunlop was after- 
wards married to Robert Glasgow, Esq. Another of the 
Dunlops served with distinction in India, where he rose 
to the rank of General. They were a gallant race, and 
all distinguished.] 

This day. Time winds th' exhausted chain, 
To run the twelvemonth's length again : 



OF ROBERT BURNb 



161 



I see the old, bald-pated fellow, 
With ardent eyes, complexion sallow, 
Adjust the unimpair'd machine. 
To wheel the equal, dull routine. 

The absent lover, minor heir, 
In vain assail him with their prayer ; 
Deaf as my friend, he sees them press, 
Nor makes the hour one moment less. 
W^ill you (the Major's with the hounds, 
■^he happy tenants share his rounds ; 
Coila's fair Rachel's care to-day, 
And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray) 
From housewife cares a piinute borrow — 
— That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow- 
And join with me a moralizing, 
This day's propitious to be wise in. 

First, what did yesternight deliver? 

♦' Another year is gone for ever." 

And what is this day's strong suggestion ? 

" The passing moment's all we rest on!" 

Rest on — for what ? what do we here? 

Or why regard the passing year ? 

Will time, amus'd with proverb'd lore. 

Add to our date one minute more? 

A few days may — a few years must — ■ 

Repose us in the silent dust. 

Then is it wise to damp our bliss ? 

Yes — all sucji reasonings are amias! 

The voice of nature loudly cries, 

And many a message from the skiea, 

That something in us never dies : 

That on this frail, uncertain state. 

Hang matters of eternal weight : 

That future life in worlds unknown 

Must take its hue from this alone ; 

Whether as lienvenly glory bright. 

Or dark as misery's woeful night. — 

Since then, my honour'd, tirst of friends. 
On this poor being all depends, 
Let us th' important now employ. 
And live as those who never die. — 

Tho' you, with days and honours crown'd. 
Witness that filial circle round, 
(A sight, life's sorrows to repulse, 
A sight, pale envy to convulse,) 
Others now claim your chief regard;. 
Fourseif, you wait your bright reward. 



TO A GENTLEMAN 

WHO HAD SENT HIM A-NKWSPAPER, A XiO OFPiKED TO 
CONTINUE IT FREE OF EXPENSE. 

[These sarcastic hnes contain a too true pictuie o tluS 
times in which they were written. Though great shar-^M 
have taken place iri court and camp, yet Austria, R-aggia 
and Prussia keep the tack of Poland: nobrtdy eay t 
word of Denmark: emasculated Italy is still singirat 
opera girls are still dancing ; but Chatham Wil> gijlii 
Charlie, Daddie Burke, Royal George, and Geordj* 
Wales, have all passed to their account.] 

Kind Sir, I've read your paper through, 

And, faith, to me 'twas really new I 

How guess'd ye. Sir, what maist I wanted ? 

This mony a day I've grain'd and gaunted, 

To ken what French mischief was brewin' ; 

Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin' ; 

That vile dv.-up-skelper. Emperor Joseph, 

If Venus yet had got his nose off; 

Or how the collieshangie works 

Atween the Russians and the Turks ; 

Or if the Swede, before he halt. 

Would play anither Charles the Twali 

If Denmark, any body spak o't ; 

Or Poland, wha had now the tack o't, 

How cut-throat Prussian blades were hingia 

How libbet Italy was singin' ; 

If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss 

Were sayin' or takin' aught amiss : 

Or how our merry lads at hame 

In Britain's court kept up the gane : 

How royal George, the Lord leuk o'er him! 

Was managing St. Stephen's quorum ; 

If sleekit Chatham Will was livin' ; 

Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in ; 

How daddie Burke the plea was cooWn' 

If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukin ; 

How cesses, stents, and fees were rax'd, 

Or if bare a — s yet were tax'd ; 

The news o' princes, dukes, and earls, 

Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera gir1« . 

If that daft buckle, Geordie Wales, 

Was threshin' still at hizzies' tails ; 

Or if he was grown oughtlins douser. 

And no a perfect kintra cooser. — 

A' this and mair I never heard of; 

And but for you I might despair'd of. 

So, gratefu', back your news I send you. 

And pray, a' g-uid things may attend you ■ 

Ellisland, Monday morning, 1790 



THE POETICAL WOKKtS 



THE KIEK'S ALARM;' 

A SATIEE. 

[first version.] 

[The 'v story of this Poem is curious. M'Gill; one of 
»e ministers of Ayr, long suspected of entertain'mg 
tiflterodnx opinions concerning original sin and the Tri- 
nity, published "A Prnctical Essny on the T)eath of 
Jesus Clirist," which, -n the opinion of the more rigid 
portion of Ids brethren, inclined both to Arianism and 
Socinirinism. This essay wus.denounced as heretical, by 
a minister of the name of Peebles, in a sermon preached 
iVovemher 5th, 17S6, and all the west country was in a 
flame. The subject was brought before the Synod, and 
"vas warmly debated till M'Gill expressed his regret for 
the disquiet he had occasioned, explained away or apo- 
'ogized for the challenged'passages in his Essay, and de- 
clared his adherence to the standard doctrines of his 
mother church. Burns was prevailed upon to bring his 
satire to the aid of M'Grill, but he appears to have done 
iu with reluctance.] 

Orthodox, orthodox, 

Wha believe in John Knox, 
Let me sound an alarm to your conscience : 

There's a heretic blast 

Has been blawn in the wast, 
That what '"s no sense must be nonsense. 

Dr. Mac, 2 Dr. Mac, 

You should stretch on a rack, 
To strike evil doers wi' terror; 

To join faith and sense 

Upon ony pretence, 
Is heretic damnable error 



^ Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, 

It was mad I declare, 
To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing ; 

Provost John 3 is still deaf 

To the church's relief, 
And orator Bob '' is its ruin 

D'rymple mild,^ D'rymple mild, 

Thro' your heart's like a child, 
And your life like the new driven snaw, 

Yet that winna save ye, 

Auld Satan must hav ye. 
For preaching that three's ane an' twa. 

' This Poem was written a short time after the pab- 
watioc of M'Gill's Fgsiy. 
i Dr. M'Gill. 3 John Ballantyne. 

* Robert Aikec 6 Dr. Dalrymple. 

« Mr. Russell T Mr. M'Kinlay. 



Rumble Joliu,^ Rumble J( Un, 
Mount the steps wi' a groan. 

Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm'd ; 
Then lug out your ladle, 
Deal brimstone like adle, 

And roar every note of the damn'i. 

Simper James,'' Simper Jamen 
Leave the fair Killie dames. 

There's a holier chase in your view ; 
I'll lay on your head 
That the pack ye'll soon lead, 

For puppies like you there's but few. 

Singet Sawney,^ Singet Sawney, 

Are ye herding the penny, 
Unconscious what evil await ? 

Wi' a jump, yell, and howl, 

Alarm every soul, 
For the foul thief is just at your gate. 

Daddy Auld,9 Daddy Auld, 

There's a tod in the fauld, 
A tod meikle waur than the clerk; 

Though ye can do little skaith, 

Ye'll be in at the death. 
And gif ye canna bite, ye may bark. 

Davie Bluster,'" Davie Bluster, 
If for a saint ye do muster, 

The corps is no nice of recruits ; 
Yet to worth let's be just, 
Royal blood ye might boast, 

If the ass was the king of the brutes. 

Jamy Goose, '• Jamy Goose, 

Ye ha'e made but toom roose, 
In hunting the wicked lieutenant ; 

But the Doctor's your mark, 

For the L — d's haly s.rk ; 
He has cooper'd and aawd a wrang pin re' 

Poet Willie, '^ Poet Willie, 

Gie the Doctor a volley, 
Wi' your liT)erty's chain and your wit; 

O'er Pegasus' side 

Ye ne'er laid astride, 
Ye but smelt, man, the place where he — - 

8 Mr. Moody, of Riccarton. 

9 Mr. Auld of MauchJine. 

10 Mr. Grant, of Ochiltree. 

11 Mr. Young, of Cumnock. 

12 Mr. Peebles, Ay 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



16« 



Andro Gouk,' Andro Gouk, 


ex. 


Ye may slander the book, 
A.nd the book not the waur, let me tell ye ; 


THE KIRK'S AXARM 


Ye are rich and look big, 


A BALLAD. 


But lay by hat and wig, 


[second version.] 



Barr Steenie,^ Barr Steenie, 

What mean ye, what mean ye ? 
If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter, 

Ye may ha'e some pretence 

To havins and sense, 
Wi' people wha ken ye nae better. 

Irvine side,^ Irvine side, 

Wi' your turkey-cock pride. 
Of manhood but sma' is your share, 

Ye've the figure 'tis true, 

Even your faes will allow, 
A.nd vour friends they dae grant you nae mair. 

Muirland Jock,* Muirland Jock, 

When the L — d makes a rock 
To crush Common sense for her sins. 

If ill manners were wit, 

There's no mortal so fit 
To confound the poor Doctor at ance. 

Holy Will,5 Holy Will, 
There was wit i' your skull. 

When ye pilfer'd the alms o' the poor ; 
The timmer is scant. 
When ye're ta'en for a saunt, 

Wha should swing in a rape for an hour. 

Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons. 

Seize your spir'tual guns, 
Ammunition you never can need ; 

Your hearts are the stufi', 

Will be powther enough, 
And your skulls are storehouses o' lead. 

Pcet Burns, Poet Burns, 

Wi' your priest-skelping turns, 
Why desert ye your auld native shire ? 

Your muse iH a gipsie. 

E'en tho' she were tipsie. 
She lould ca' us nae waur than we are. 



' Dr. Andrew Mitchell, of Monkton. 
^ Mr. Stephen Young, of Barr. 
3 M; Georgje Smith, of Galston. 



[This versjon is from the papers of Miss Logaa. ol 
Afton The origin of the Poem is thus related toOi* 
ham of Fintry by the poet himself: " Though I dare »a7 
you iiave none of the solemn League and Covenant fire 
which shone so conspicuous in Lord George Gordon, ana 
the Kilmarnock weavers, yet 1 think you must have 
heard of Dr. M'Gill, one of the clergymen of Ayr, and 
his heretical book, God help him, poor man ! Though 
one of the wortliiest, as well as one of the ablest of the 
whole priestliood of the Kirk of Scotland, in every sense 
of that ambiguous terra, yet the poor doctor and hia 
numerous family are in imrainervt danger of being thrown 
out (9th December, 1790) to tlie mercy of the winte 
winds. The enclosed ballad on that business, is, I con 
fess, too local : but J lauglied myself at some con^-eits ia 
it, though I am convinced in my conscience there nre a 
good many heav)' stanzas in it too." The Kirk's AK'-m 
was first printed by Stewart, in 1801. Cromek calls it, 
" A silly satire, on some worthy ministers of the gospel, 
in Ayrshire."] 

r. 
Orthodox, orthodox. 
Who believe in John Knox, 
Let me sound an alarm to your conscienco- 
There's a heretic blast. 
Has been blawn i' the wast. 
That what is not sense must be nonsense, 

Orthodox, 
That what is not sense must be nonsense. 



Doctor Mac, Doctor Mac, 

Ye should stretch on a rack, 
And strike evil doers wi' terror ; 

To join faith and sense. 

Upon any pretence. 
Was heretic damnable error, 

Doctor Mac, 
Was heretic damnable error, 

III. 

Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, 

It was rash I declare, 
To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing ; 

Provost John is still deaf, 

To the church's relief, 
And orator Bob is its ruin. 

Town of Ayr, 
And orator Bob is its ruin. 

4 Mr. John Shepherd, Muirkirk. 

5 Holy Willie, alias William Fisher, Elder in Maue» 
liue 



164 



THE POETICAL WOKKS 



IV. 


And the book nought the waur — ^let me tell yon 


D'rymple mild, D'rymple mild, 


Tho' ye're rich and look big, 


Tho' your heart's like a child, 


Yet lay by hat and wig, 


And your life like the new-driven snaw, 
Yet that winna save ye, 


And ye'U hae a calf's-head o' sma' value, 


Andrew Gowk, 


Old Satan must have ye 


And ye'U hae a calf's-head o' sma' va.ue 


For preaching that three's ane an' tvra, 




D'rymple mild. 


X. 


For preaching that three's ane an' twa. 


Poet WiUie, Poet WiUie, 




Gie the doctor a volley. 


V. 


Wi' your "liberty's chain" and your wit; 


Calvin's sons, Qalvin's sons. 
Seize your spiritual guns. 


O'er Pegasus' side, 


Ye ne'er laid a stride 


Ammunition ye never can need ; 


Ye only stood by when he , 


Your hearts are the stuff, 


Poet WiUie, 


Will be powder enough. 


Ye only stood by when he . 


And your skulls are a storehouse of lead, 




Calvin's sons. 


XI. 


And your skulls are a storehouse of lead. 


Barr Steenie, Barr Steenie, 




What mean ye ? what mean ye ? 


VI. 


If ye'U meddle nae mair wi' the matter, 


Rumble John, Eumble John, 


Ye may hae some pretence, man. 


Mount the steps with a groan. 


To havins and sense, man, 


Cry the book is with heresy cramm'd ; 
Then lug out your ladle, 
Deal brimstone like aidle. 


Wi' people that ken ye nae better, 


Barr Steenie, 


Wi' people that ken ye nae better. 


And roar every npte o' the damn'd, 




Rumble John, 


XII. 


And roar every note o' the damn'd. 


Jamie Goose, Jamie Goose, 




Ye hae made but toom roose, 


VII. 


0' hunting the wicked lieutenant ; 


Simper James, Simper James, 


But the doctor's your mark, 


Leave the fair Killie dames. 


For the L — d's holy ark, ' 


There's a holier chase in your view ; 


He has cooper'd and ca'd a wrong pin in't 


I'll lay on your head. 


Jamie Goose, 


That the pack ye'U soon lead, 


He has cooper'd and ca'd a wrong pin in't 


For puppies like you there's but few, 




Simper James, 


XIII. 


For puppies like you there's but few. 


Davie Bluster, Davie Bluster, 



Singet Sawnie, Singet Sawnie, 

Are ye herding the penny, 
(Jnconsci.jus what danger awaits ? 

With a jump, yell, and howl; 

Alarm every soul, 
VoT Hannibal's just at your gates, 
Singet Sawnie, 
Per Hannibal's just at your gates. 



Andrew Gowk, Andrew Gowk, 
Ye may slander the book, 



For a saunt if ye muster. 
It's a sign they're no nice o' recruits. 
Yet to worth let's be just. 
Royal blood ye might boast, 
If the ass were the king o' the brutes, 

Davie Bluster, 
If the ass were the king o' the brutes. 



Muirland George, Muirland Georg« 
Whom the Lord made a scourge. 
To claw common sense for her sins, 
If ill manners were wit, 
There's no mortal so fit, 



OF ROBEliT BURN^ 



[6h 



To confound the poor doctor at ance, 
Muirland George, 
To confoupd the poor doctor at ance. 



CessnocVside, Cessnockside, 
Wi' your ♦nrkey-cock pride, 

O manhood but sma' is your share ; 
Ye've the figure, it's true, 
Even our faes maun allow, 

A.nd your friends daurna say ye hae mair, 
Cessnockside, 

And your friends daurna say ye hae mair 

xvi. 
Daddie Auld, Daddie Auld, 
There's a tod i' the fauld 
A tod meikle waur than the clerk;' 
Tho' ye downa do skaith, 
Ye'U be in at the death, 
And if ye canna bite ye can bark, 
Daddie Auld, 
And if ye canna bite ye can bark. 

XVII. 

Poet Burns, Poet Burns, 

Wi' your priest-skelping turns. 
Why desert ye your auld native shire ? 

Tho' your Muse is a gipsy. 

Yet were she even tipsy. 
She could ca' us nae waur than we are, 

Poet Burns, 
She 30uld ca' us nae waur than we are. 



POSTSCRIPT. 

Afton's Laird, Afton's Laird, 

When your pen can be spar'd, 
A copy o' this I bequeath. 

On the same sicker score 

I mention'd before, 
To that trusty auld worthy Clackleith; 

Afton's Laird, 
To that trusty auld worthy Clackleith 



CXI. 

PEG NICHOLSON. 



poet, giving him an account of the unlooked-for daatk 
I of his mare, Peg Nicholson, the successor of Jenn] 

Geddes. She had suffered both in the emplo\ of the joy 
I ous priest and the thoughtless poet. Slio acquired t.«l 

name from that frantic virago who attempted to ennnlel 

George the Third.] 

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare. 

As ever trode on airn ; 
But now she's floating down the Nith, 

And past the mouth o' Cairn. 

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, 

And rode thro' thick an' thin ; 
But now she's floating down the Nith, 

And wanting even the skin. , 

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, 

And ance she bore a priest ; 
But now she's floating down the Nith, 

For Solway fish a feast. 

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, 
And the priest he rode her sair; 

And much oppress'd and bruis'd she was ; 
As priest-rid cattle are, &c. &c. 



ihese ha»'7 verses are to be found in a letter ad 
iressed to Ni .ol. of the High School of ^^nburgh, >™ the 



1 GavL.. riamihon. 



CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDERSON, 

A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR HIS H 
NOUKS lUMEDIATELY FROM ALMIGHTY GOD. 



" Shoulcfthe poor 1 

Shakspearb 
But no^y his radiant course is run, 

For IVIatthew's course ^vas bright ; 
tlis soul was ;ilie the glorious sun, 

A matchless heav'nly light ! 

[Captain Mattliew Henderson, a gentleman cf very 
agreeable munners and great propriety of '.haiacter, 
usually lived in Edinburgh, dined constantly at Fo'tune'i 
Tavern, and was a member of the Capillaire Club which 
was composed of all who desired to be tlionglit M itty 0» 
joyous : he died in 1789 : Burns, in a note to the Po«ia 
says, " I loved the man much, and have not flattere' his 
memory." Henderson seems indeed to have been ni- 
versally liked. "In our travelling p irty," says Si? 
James Campbell, of Ardkinglass, '• was JNTatthew Hen 
derson, then (1759) and afterwards well kiiovvn and muc*- 
esteemed in the town of Edinburgh ; at i lat time an of- 
ficer in the twenty-fifth regiment of foot, al d like myself 
on his way to join the avray ; and I may s.iy with truth, 
that in the course of a long life I have ne/er known a 
more estimable character, than Mattliew Hendcisoa ' 
Memoirs of Campbell, of Ardhinglass, p. 17.] 

Death ! thou tyrant fell and bloody*! 
xne meikle devil wi' a woodie 



166 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie, 

O'er hurcheon hides, 

\nd like stock-fisii come o'er his studdie 
Wi' thy auld sides ! 

He's gane ! he's gane ! he's frae us torn, " 

The ae best fellow e'er was born ! 

Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel' shall mourn 

By wood and wild, 
Where, haply, pity strays forlorn, 

Frae man exil'd ! 

Ye hills ! near neebors o' the starns, 
That proadly cock your cresting cairns ! 
Ye clifFs, the haunts of sailing yearns. 

Where echo slumbers 
Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns. 

My wailing numbers < 

Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens ! 
Yp h\z'lly shaws and briery dens ! 
Ye hurnies, \''in'.plin' down your glens, 

Wi' toddlin' din, 
Or fofiming stranj;, ^i' hasty stens, 

Frae lin to lin ! 

Mourn little harebells o'er the lea ; 
Ye stfitelv fox£'loves fair to see ; 
Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie. 

In scented bov'rj ; 
Ye roses on your thorny tree, 

The first o' flow'rs. 

A*- daw^, when e'f'ry grassy blade 

Droops with a diamond at its head. 

At ev'r, when beans their fragrance phcd 

r th' rustling gale, 
Ye maukins whiddin thro' the glade, 

Come join my wail. 

Moura, ye wee songsters o' the wood- 
Ye grouse that crap the heather bud* 
Ye curlews calling thro' a clud : 

Ye whistlina; plover ; 
An mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood I- 

He's gane tor ever ! 

Ml aim, sooty coots, and speckled tf>a^ 
A'e fisher lierons, watching eels: 
Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels 

Circling the lake; 
'•'e bit'erns, till the ijuagmive reels> 

Kair for his saKe. 



Mourn, clam'ring craiks a^ close o' day, ' 
'Mang fields o' flowering clover jray ; 
And when ye wing your annupl way 

Frae our cauld shora 
Tell thae far warlds, wha lies in clay, 

Wham we deplore. 

Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow'r. 
In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r, 
What time the moon, wi' silent glow'r, 

Sets up her horn. 
Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour 

'Till waukrife morn ! 

rivers, forests, hills, and plains ! 
Oft have ye heard my canty strains : 
But now, what else for me remains 

But tales of woe ? 
And frae my een the drapping rains 

Maun ever flow. 

Mourn, spring, thou darling of the year ! 
Ilk, cowslip cup shall kep a tear-: 
Thou, simmer, while each corny spear 

Shoots up its head, 
Thy gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear 

For him that's dead 1 

Thou, autumn, wi' thy yellow hair. 
In grief thy sallow mantle tear: 
Thou, winter, hurling thro' the air 

The roaring blast, 
Wide, o'er the naked world declare 

The worth we've lost ! 

Mourn him, thou sun, great source of light 
Mourn, empress of the silent night ! 
And you, ye twinkling starnies bright, 

My Matthew mourn ! 
For through your orbs he's ta'en his flight, 

Ne'er to return. 

0, Henderson! the man — the brother! 
And art thou gone, and gonn f"r ever ? 
And hast thou crost that unkn'^wn river 

Life's dreary bound t 
Like thee, where shall I find another. 

The world around ? 

Go to your sculptur'd tombs, ye great, 
I'x a' the tinsel trash o' state ! 
But by thy honest turf I'll wait, 

Thou men c^ voi^h 
And v^ep the a^. test feUow'a ffte 

i"er lay in earth. 



Of KOBEllT BURNS. 167 


THE EPITAPH. 


Solwayside, Annan; Whiskey Jean, Kirkcudbright ; aai 




Black Joan, Sanquhar. On the part of Miller, all th! 


Stop, piissengei ! — my story's brief, 


Whig interest of the Duke of Queensberrv was exerte<i 


And truth I shall relate, man ; 


and all the Tory interest on the side of the Johnstone 


1 tell nae common tale o' grief— 


the poet's heart was w'th the latter. Annan and Locu 


maben stood staunch by old names and old afTectioni 


For Matthew was a great man. 


after a contest, bitterer than anything of ti.e kindrenem 




bared, the Whig interest prevailed.] 


f ihou uncommon merit hast, 




iTet spurn'd at fortune's door, man, 


There were five carlins in the south, 


5 look of pity hither cast — 


They fell upon a scheme. 


For Matthew was a poor man. 


To send a lad to London town. 




To bring them tidings hame. 


If thou J, noble sodger art, • 




That passest by this grave, man. 


Not only bring them tidings hame. 


There moulders here a gallant heart— 


But do their errands there ; 


For Matthew was a brave man. 


And aiblins gowd and honour baith 




Might be that laddie's share. 


If thou on men, their works and ways, 




Canst throw uncommon light, man. 


There was Maggy by the banks o' NitU. 


Here lies wha weel had won thy praise— 


A dame wi' pride eneugh ; 


For Matthew was a bright man. 


And Marjory o' the mony lochs. 




A carlin auld and teugh. 


K thou at friendship's sacred ca' 




Wad life itself resign, man. 


And blinkin' Bess of Annandale, 


Thy sympathetic tear maun fa' — 


That dwelt near Solway-side ; 


For Matthew was a kind man! 


And whiskey Jean, that took her gill 




In Galloway sae wide. 


If thou art staunch without a stain, 




Like the unchanging blue, man, 


And black Joan, frae Crighton-peel, 


This was a kinsman o' thy ain — 


0' gipsey kith an' kin ; — 


For Matthew was a true man. 


Fire wighter carlins were na found 




The south countrie within. 


If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire. 




And ne'er guid wine did fear, man, 


To send a lad to .London town. 


This was thy billie, dam and sire — 


They met upon a day; 


For Matthew was a queer man. 


And mony a knight, and mon/ a laircL 




This errand fain wad gae. 


If ony whiggish whingin sot. 




To blame poor Matthew dare, man, 


mony a knight and mony a laird, 


May docl and sorrow be his lot ! 


, This errand fain wad gae ; 


F?" Matthew was a rare man 


But nae ane could their fancy pleases 




ne'er a ane but twae. 




The first ane was a belted knight, 




Bred of a border band ; 




And he wad gae to London town, 


-^XIII. 


Might nae man him withstand. 


THE FIVE C^HLINS. 


And he wad do their errands weel. 


A SCOTS BALLAD. 


And meikle he wad say ; 




And ilka ane about the court 


Tune — Chevy Chase. 






Wad bid to him gude-day. 


('This IS a loi^aV and political Poem composed or the 




»3ntest between Miller, the younger, of Dalswinton, and 


The neist cam in a sodger youta. 


Johnstone, of Westerliall, for the representation of the 
Dumfries and Galloway district of Boroughs. Each 


And spak wi' modest grace. 


lown or boiougli speaks and acts in character : Maggy 


And he wad gae to London town. 


»«r««inates Dumfries; Marjory, Lochmaben; Bees of 


if sae their pleasure was. 




THE POETICAL WORKS 



He wad na hecht them courtly gifts, 

Nor meikle speech pretend ; 
But he wad i echt an honest heart, 

Wad ne'er desert his friend. 

Then wham to chuse, and wham refuse, 

At strife thir carlins fell ; 
Fo- some had gentlefolks to please. 

And some wad please themsel'. 

Then out spak mim-mou'd Meg o' Nith, 

And she spak up wi' pride, 
And she wad send the sodger youth, 

Whatever might betide. 

For the auld gudeman o' London court 

She didna care a pin ; 
But she wad send the sodger youth 

To greet his eldest son. 

Then slow raise Marjory o' the Lochs 

And wrinkled was her brow ; 
Her ancient weed was russet gray. 

Her auld Scotch heart was true. 

" The London court set light by me — 

I set as light by them ; 
And I will send the sodger lad 

To shaw that court the same." 

Then up sprang Bess of Annandale, 

And swore a deadly aith, 
Says, " I will send the border-knight 

Spite o' you carlins baith. 

' For far-otf fowls hae feathers fair, 

And fools o' change are fain ; 
But I hae try'd this border-knight, 
I'll try him yet again." 

Then whiskey Jean spak o'er her drink, 

*' Ye weel ken, kimmersa', 
The aulvi gudeman o' London court, 

His back's been at the wa'. 

"And mony a friend that kiss'd his caup, 

Is now a fremit wight ; 
But it's ne'er be sae wi' whiskey Jean, — 

Wo'U send the border-knight." 

gays black Joan o' Crighton-peel, 

A carlin stoor and grim, — 
• The auld gudeman, or the young gudeman, 
For me may sink c swim. 



" For fools will prate o' right and wrang, 
While knaves laugh in their sleeve , 

But wha blaws best the horn shall win, 
I'll spier nae courtier's leave." 

So how this mighty plea may end 

There's naebody can tell: 
God grant the king, and ilka man, 

May look weel to himsel' ! 



THE LADDIES BY THE BANKS 0' NITK. 

[This short Poem was first published by Robert Clham- 
bers. It intimates pretty strongly, how much the poet 
disapproved of the cliange which came over the Duk« 
of Queensberry's opinions, when he supported the Kgtl 
of the Prince of Wales to assume the government, witif 
out consent of Parliament, during the king's alarming 
illness, in 1788.] 

The laddies by the banks o' Nith, 
•Wad trust his Grace wi' a', Jamie, 

But he'll sair them, as he sair'd the King, 
Turn tail and rin awa', Jamie. 

Up and waur them a', Jamie, 

Up and waur them a' ; 
The Johnstones hae the guidin' e't, ' 

Ye turncoat Whigs awa'. 

The day he stude his country's friend,' 
Or gied her faes a claw, Jamie : 

Or frae puir man a blessin' wan. 

That day the Duke ne'er saw, Jamie. 

But wha is he, his countrj^'s boast? 

Like him there is na twa, Jamie ; 
There's no a callant tents the kye. 

But kens o' Westerha', Jamie. 

To end the wark here's Whistlebirk,' 
Lang may his whistle blaw, Jamie ; 

And Maxwell true o' sterling blue : 
And we'll be Johnstones a', Jamie. 

• Birkwhistle : a Galloway laira, and •••eta*. 



OF ROBERT BUKNS. 



iC 



1 



EPISTLE TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ. 

OF riNXRAY: 

-^K TH3 t:i,OSE OF THE DISPUTED ELECTION BETWEEN 

» % lAMES JOHNSTONE AND CAPTAIN MILLER, FOE 

THK JDWFRIES LISTRICT OF BOROUGHS. 

['• . am ioo little a man," said Burns, in the note to 
y-iStray, which apcoinpanied this poem, "to have any 
*ol t»ca attacliment: I am deeply indebted to, and have 
'a9 ivarmest veneration for individuals of both parties : 
but a Tiiin who hs ' it in his power to be the father of a 
touncry, ?nd wlio a>-ts like his Grace of Queensberry, is 
a charactei that one cannot speak of with patience." 
This Epistle was nist printed in my edition of Burns in 
1P34 : I liad the use of the Macmurdo and the Afton ma- 
nuscripts for that purpose : to both families the poet was 
much indebted for many acts of courtesy and kindness.] 

FiNTKAT, my stay in worldly strife, 
Friend o' my muse, friend o' my life,. 

Are ye as idle's I am ? 
Come then, wi' uncouth, kintra fleg, 
O'er Pegasus I'll fling my leg, 

And ye shall see me try him. 

I'll sing the zeal Drumlanrig bears. 
Who left the all-important cares 

Of princes and their darlings ; 
And, hent on winning borough towns, 
Came shaking hands Avi' wabster lowns, 

And kissing barefit carlins. 

t'ombustion thro' our boroughs rode, 
Whistling his roaring pack abroad 

Of mad unmuzzled lions ; 
As Queensberry buff and blue unfurl' d, 
And Westerha' and Hopeton hurl'd 

To every Whig defiance. 

But cautious Queensberry left the war, 
Ih' unmanner'd dust might soil his star ; 

Besides, he hated bleeding : 
But left behind him heroes bright, 
Heroes in Cassarean fight, 

Or Ciceronian pleading. 

' for a throat like huge Mons-meg, 
Tc muster o'er each ardent Whig 

Beneath Drumlanrig's banner ; 
Heroes and heroines commix. 
All in the field of politics. 

To win immortal honour. 



John M'Min-do, Esq., of Drumlanrig. 
Fereusson of Ci aigdarroch. 
Ri del of Friars-Carse 



M'Murdo' and his lovely spouse, 

(Th' enamour'd laurels kiss her brows !) 

Led on the loves and graces: 
She won each gaping burge.ss' heart. 
While he, all-conquering, play'd his part 

Among their wives and lasaea. 

Craigdarroch^ led a light-arm'd corps, 
Tropes, metaphors and figures pour, 

Like Hecla streaming thunder: 
Glenriddel,^ skill'd in rusty coins, 
Blew up each Tory's dark designs, 

And bar'd the treason under. 

In either wing two champions foaght, 
Redoubted Staig'* who set at nought 

The wildest savage Tory 
And Welsh,5 who ne'er yet fliuch'd his ground, 
High-wav'd his magnum-bonum round 

With Cyclopeian fury. 

Miller brought up th' artillery ranks, 
The many-pounders of the Banks, 

Resistless desolation ! 
While Maxwelton, that baron bold, 
'Mid Lawson's^ port intrench'd his hold. 

And threaten' d worse damnation 

To these what Tory hosts oppos'd. 
With these what Tory warriors clos'd. 

Surpasses my descrivmg ■ 
Squadrons extended long and large. 
With furious speed rush to the charge. 

Like raging devils driving. 

What verse can sing, what prose narrate. 
The butcher deeds of bloody fate 

Amid this mighty tulzie ! 
Grim Horror grinn'd — pale Terror roar'd, 
As Murther at his thrapple shor'd, 

And hell mix'd in the brulzie. 

As higkland craigs by thunder cleft. 
When lightnings fire the stormy lift, 

Hurl down with crashing rattle; 
As flames among a hundred woods ; 
As headlong foam a hundred floods ; 

Such is the rage of battle ! 

The stubborn ^^ories dare to die ; 
As soon the rooted oaks would fly 

Before the approaching fellers . 

4 Provost Staig of Dumfries. 

6 Sheriff Welsh. 

6 A Wine-merchant in Dumfries. 



170 THE POETICAL WOEKS 


The Whigs come on like Ocean's roar, 


XCI. 


When all his vintry billows pour 


Against the Buchan Bullers. 


ON 


Lo, from the shades of Death's deep night, 


CAPTAIN GROSE'S 


De^Tted Whigs enjoy the fight, 


PEREGRINATIONS THROUGH SCOTLAND, 


And think on former daring : 




The nLuffled murtherer' of Charle? 


COLLECTING THE 


Tb? Magna Charter flag unfurls, 


ANTIQUITIES OF THAT KINGDOM. 


All deadly gules it's bearing. 


[This " fine fat fodgel wight" was a cleve- man., « 




skilful anti'quary, and fond of wit and wine. He wai 


Nor wanting ghosts of Tory fame. 


well acquainted with heraldry, and was conversant with 


' Bold Scrimgeour^ follows gallant Graham,3 


the weapons and the armour of his ovra and other coun- 


Auld Covenanters shiver. 


tries. He found his way to Friars-Carse, in the Vala 




of Nith, and there, at the social " board of Gleuriddel,'- 


(Forgive, forgive, much-wrong'd Montrose ! 


for the first time saw Burns. The Englishman heard, 11 


Now death and hell engulph thy foes, 


16 said, v^^th wonder, the sarcastic sallies and eloquent 


Thou liv'st on high for ever !) 


bursts of the inspired Scot, who, in his turn, surveyed 




with wonder the remarkable corpulence, and listened 


Still o'er the field the combat burns, 


with pleasure to the independent sentiments and humour- 




ous turns of conversation in the joyous Englishman. 


The Tories, Whigs, give way by turns ; 


This Poem was the fruit o-f the interview, and it is said 


But fate the word has spoken : 


that Grose regarded some passages as rather personal 1 


For woman's wit and strength o' man, 




Alas 1 can do but what they can ! 


Hear, Land o' Cakes and brither Scots, 


The Tory ranks are broken. 


Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groat's ; 




If there's a hole in a' your coats. 


that my een were flowing burns, 


I rede you tent it : 


My voice a lioness that mourns 


A chiel's amang you taking notes, 


Her darling cubs^ undoing ! 


And, faith, he'll prent itl 


That I might greet, that I might cry, ■ 




While Tories fall, while Tories fly, 


If in your bounds ye chance to light 


And furious Whigs pursuing ! 


Upon a fine, fat, fodgel wight. 




0' stature short, but genius bright. 


What Whig but melts for good Sir James I 


That's he, mark weel— 


Dear to his country by the names 


And wow ! he has an unco slight 


Friend, patron, benefactor! 


0' cauk and keel. 


Not Pulteney's wealth can Pulteney save ! 




And Hopeton falls, the generous brave ! 


By some auld, houlet-haunfed biggin, 


And Stewart,'* bold as Hector. 


Or kirk deserted by its riggin, 




It's ten to one ye'U find him snug in 


Thou, Pitt, shalt rue this overthrow ; 


Some eldritch part. 


And Thurlow grrwl a curse of woe ; 


Wi' deils, they say, L — d save's ! coUeaguin 


And-Melville melt in wailing ! 


At some black art. 


How Fox and Sheridan rejoice ! 




And Burke shall sing, Prince, arise. 


Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chaumer, 


Thy power is all prevailing ! 


Ye gipsey-gang that deal in glamour, 




And you deep read in hell's black grammar, 


For joax poor friend, the Bard, afar 


Warlocks and witches; 


He only hears and sees the war, 


Ye'U quake at his conjuring hammer. 


A coorspectator purely ; 


Ye midnight b s ! 


Bo, when the storm the forests rends, 




The robin in the hedge descends, 


It's tauld he was a sodger bred, 


And sober chirps securely 


And ane wad rather fa'n than fled ; 


1 The executioner of Charles i. was masked. 


3 Graham, Marquis of Montrose 


2 Scrii-geour, liora Dundee. 


i Stewart of Hillside. 






OF KOBERT BURNS. 17^ 


But BOW he's quat the spurtle-blade, 


of sending a rhyming inquiry after hip fat friend, a^ 


And dog-skin wallet, 


Cardonnel spread the condoling inquiry over the Noi th- 


And ta'en the — Antiquarian trade, 


" Is he sla'.n by Highlan' bodies * 


I think they call it. 


And eaten like a wether-haggis ?"J 




Ken ye ought o' Captain Grose ? 


Eb has a fouth o' auld nick-nackets : 


Igo and ago, 


Rusty airn caps and jinglin' jackets, 


If he's amang his friends or foes ? 


Wa>l haud the Lothians three in tackets. 


Iram, coram, dago. 


A towmont guid ; 




And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backets, 


Is he south or is he north ? 


Afore the flood. 


Igo and ago, 




Or drowned in the river Forth ? 


Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder ; 


Iram, coram, dago, 


A'Xld Tubal-Cain's fire-shool and fender ; 




I hat which distinguished the gender 
0' Balaam's ass ; 


Is he slain by Highlan' bodies? 
Igo and ago, 


A broom-stick o' the witch o' Endor, 


And eaten like a wether-haggis ? 


Weel shod wi' brass. 


Iram, coram, dago. 




Is he to Abram's bosom gane ? 


Forbye, he'll shape you afi", fu' gleg, 


Igp and ago. 
Or haudin' Sarah by the wame ? 


The cut of Adam's philibeg : 


The knife that nicket Abel's craig 


Iram, coram, lago. 


He'll prove you fully, 




ft was a faulding jocteleg, 


Where'er he be, the L— d be near him I 


Or lang-kail gully. — 


Igo and ago. 




As for the deil, he daur na steer him ! 


But wad ye see him in his glee, 


Iram, coram, dago. 


For meikle glee and fun has he, 




Then set him down, and twa or three - 


But please transmit the enclosed letter, 


Guid fellows wi' him ; 


Igo and ago. 


And port, port! shine thou a wee. 


Which will oblige your humble debtor, 


And then ye'U see him ! 


Iram, coram, dag© 


Now, by the pow'rs o' verse and prose ! 


So may he hae auld stanes in store. 


Thou art a dainty chiel, Grose ! — 


Igo and ago, 


Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose. 


The very stanes that Adam bore, 


They sair misca' thee ; 


Iram, coram, dago. 


I'd take the rascal by the nose. 

Wad say. Shame fa' thee ! 




So may ye get in glad posnessioii, 
Igo and ago. 




The coins o' Satan's coronation' 


' 


Iram, coram; dag*. 


CXVII. 






CXVIII. 


WRITTEN IN A WRAPPER, 




ENCLOSING ' 


TAM 0' SHANTER 


A LETTER TO CAPTAIN GROSE. 


A TALE. 


[Burns WTote out some antiquarian and legendary 


" Of brownys and of bogilis full is this buke.' 


nemoranda, respecting certain rums in Kyle, and en- 


Gawin DorsiAw 


flosed them in a sheet of a paper to CaTdonnel, a north- 


[This is a West-country legend, embellished b-j 


ern antiqua-y. As his mind teemed with poetry he 


genius. No other Poem in our language displays suci 


ftould not. oa lie afterwards said, let the opportunity, pass 


variety of power, in the same number of lines. It wai 



172 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



wrritter as an inducement to Gross to admit AUoway- 
Kirk into liis work on the Antiquities of Scotland ; and 
written with such ecstasy, that tlie poet shed tears in 
the moments of composition. The walk in which it was 
conceived, on the braes of Ellisland, is held in remem- 
brance in the vale, and pointed out to poetic inquirers : 
while the scene where the poem is laid — the crumbling 
ruins - tlie place where the chapman perished in the snow 
—the tree on wliich the poor mctther of Mungo ended her 
•OTrows — the cairn where tne muraered child was found 
hy the hunters — ana me old bridge over which Maggie 
be re her astonished master when all hell was in pursuit, 
rat first 'rate objects of inspection 'and inquiry in the 
"Lund of Burns." "In the inimitable tale of Tam 
o' Shantet ," says Scott " Burns has left us sufficient 
evidence of his ability to combine the ludicrous with the 
awful, and even the horrible. No poet, with the exception 
of Shakspeare, ever possessed the power of exciting the 
most varied and discordant emotions with such rapid 
transitions."] 

When chapman billies leave the street, 
And drouthy neebors neebors meet, 
As market-days are wearing late, 
An' folk begin to taW the gate ; 
While we sit bousing at the nappy. 
An' gettin' fou and un»o happy. 
We think na on the lang Scots miles. 
The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles, 
That lie between us and our hame. 
Where sits our sulky sullen dame, 
Gathering her brows like gathering storm, 
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. 

This truth fand honest Tam O'Shanter, 
Aa he frae Ayr ae night did canter, 
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses, 
For honest men and bonny lasses.) 
Tam ! hadst thou but been sae wise. 
As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice ! 
Sha tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, 
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum ; 
That frae November till October, 
Ae market-day thou wasna sober; 
That ilka melder, wi' the miller. 
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller ; 
That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on. 
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on ; 
That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday, 
Thou drank wi' Kirton Jean till Monday. 
She prophesy'd, that late or soon, 
Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon ; 
Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk. 
By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. 

Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me greet, 

■ To think how" mony counsels sweet. 

How mony lengthen' d sage advices. 

The husband frae the wife despises I 



But to our tale : — Ae market night, 
Tam had got planted unco right ; 
Fast by an ingle bleezing finely, 
Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely; 
And at his elbow, Souter Johnny, 
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony ; 
Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither ; 
They had been fou' for weeks thegither ! 
The night drave on wi' sa^gs an' clatter ; 
And ay the ale was growing better : 
The landlady and Tam grew gracious ; 
Wi' favours secret, sweet, and precious ; 
The Souter tauld his queerest stories ; 
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus:' 
The storm without might rair and rustle- 
Tarn did na mind the storm a whistle. 

Care, mad to see a man sae happy. 
E'en drown'd himself amang the nappy! 
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, 
The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure : 
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious. 
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious. 

But pleasures are like poppies spread. 
You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed; 
Or like the snow falls in the river, 
A moment white — then melts for evei ; 
^ Or like the^orealis race, 

That flit ere you can point their place; 

Or like the rainbow's lovely form 

Evanishing amid the storm. 

Nae man can tether time or tide ; 

The hour approaches Tam maun ride ; 

That hour, o' night's black arch the key-staiM^ 

That dreary hour he mounts his beast in ; 

And sic a night he taks the road in 

As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. 

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last ; 
The rattling show'rs rose on the blast ; 
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd ; 
Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellow'd ' 
That night, a child might understand, 
The de'il had business on his hand. 

Weel mounted on his gray mare, Meg, 
A better never lifted leg, 
Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire, 
Despising wind, and rain, and fire ; 
Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet ; 
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet 



1 VARIATION. 

The cricket raised its c.'ieering cr>'. 
The kittlen chas'd its tail in jov. 



or ROBETtT BURNS 



17 



Whiles glow'ring round ■wi' prudent cares, 
Lest bogles catch him unawares ; 
Kirk-A loway was drawing nigh, 
Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry. — 

By this time he was cross the foord, 
Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd ; 
And past the birks and meikle stane, 
Where drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane • 
And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, 
Where hunters fand the murder'd bairn ; 
And near the thorn, aboon the well. 
Where Mungo's mither hang'd hersel'. 
Before him Doon pours all his floods ; 
The doubling storm roars thro' the woods ; 
The lightnings flash from pole to pole ; 
Near and more near the thunders roll ; 
When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, 
Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze ; 
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing ; 
ind loud resounded mirth and dancing. 

Inspiring, bold John Barleycorn ! 

What dangers thou canst make us scorn ! 

VVi' tippenny, we fear nae evil ; 

Wi' usquabae we'll face the devil! 

The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle, 

Fair play, he car'd nae deils a boddle. 

But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd, 

'Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, 

She ventur'd forward on the light; 

And wow ! Tarn saw an unco sight i 

Warlocks and witches in a dance ; 

Nae cotillion brent new frae France, 

But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels^ 

Put life and mettle in their heels : 

A winnock-bunker in the east, 

There sat auld Nick, in sshape o' beast ; 

A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large. 

To gie them music was his charge ; 

He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl, 

Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. — 

CofiSns stood round, like open presses ; 

That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses ; 

And by some devilish cantrip slight 

Each in its cauld hand held a light — 

By which heroic Tam was able 

To note upon the haly table, 

A murderer's banes in gibbet aims ; 

Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns ; 

I VAHIATION. 

Thj Be lawyers' toneues turn'd inside out; 
Wi' iOE seam'd like a beggar's clout ; 



A thief, new-cutted frae a rape, 
AVi' his last gasp his gab did gape : 
Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red-rusted ; 
Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted ; 
A garter, which a babe had strangled ; 
A knife, a father's throat had mang.edj, 
Whom his ain son o' life bereft, 
The gray hairs yet stack to the heft:' 
Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu', 
Which ev'u to name wad be unlawfu'. 

As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd, and cui-ious, 
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious : 
The piper loud and louder blew ; 
The dancers quick and quicker flew ; 
They reel'd, they set, they cross' d, they cleekii 
'Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, 
And coost her duddies to th* wark, 
And linket at it in her sark ! 

Now Tam, Tam ! had thae been queans 
A' plump and strapping, in their teens ; 
Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, 
Been snawwhite seventeen huuder linen, 
Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair. 
That ance were plush, o' gUid blue hair, 
I wad hae gi'en them off my hurdles, 
For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies ! 

But wither'd beldams, auld and droll, 
Ptigwoodie hags, wad spean a foal, 
Lowping an' flinging on a ciimmook, 
I wonder didna turn thy stomach. 

But Tam kenn'd what was what fu' bravfiie, 

There was a winsome wench and walie, 

That night enlisted in the core, 

(Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore; 

For mony a beast to dead she shot. 

And perish'd mony a bonnie boat, 

And shook baith meikle corn and beai, 

And kept the country-side in fear. ) 

Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn. 

That, while a lassie, she had worn, 

In longitude tho' sorely scanty. 

It was her best, and she was vaunti*— 

Ah ! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie, 
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie 
Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches^ 
Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches! 

And priests' hearts rotten black as muck, 
Lay stinking vile, in every neu&. 



174 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



But here my muse her wing maun cour ; 
Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r ; 
To sing how Nannie lap and flang, 
(A souple jade she was and Strang,) 
And how Tam stood, like anp bewitch'd, 
And thought his very e«n enrich' d ; 
Even Satan glowi-'d, and fidg'd fu' fain, 
4nd hotch'd and blew wi' might and main: 
Till first ae caper, syne anither, 
Tam tint his reason a' thegither, 
And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty-sark'" 
And in an instant all was dark : 
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, 
When out the hellish legion sallied. 

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke. 

When plundering herds assail their byke ; 

As open pussie's mortal foes, 

When, pop ! she starts before their nose; 

As eager runs the market-crowd, 

When " Catch the thief!" resounds aloud; 

So Maggie runs, the witches follow, 

Wi' mony an eldritch screech and hollow. 

Ah, Tam ! Ah, Tam ! thou'U get thy fairin' I 

In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin'l 

In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin' ! 

Kate soon will be a woefu' woman ! 

Now do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 

And win the key-stane' of the brig ; 

There at them thou thy tail may toss, 

A running stream they darena cross ! 

But ere the key-stane she could make, 

The fient a tail she had to shake ! 

For Nannie, far before the rest. 

Hard upon noble Maggie prest. 

And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle ; 

But little wist she Maggie's mettle — 

Ae spring brought off her master hale, 

But left behind her ain gray tail : 

The carlin claught her by the rump, 

And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, 
Ilk man and mother's son, take heed : 
Whene'er to Irink you are inclin'd. 
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind. 
Think ! ye may buy the joys o'er dear — 
Eemember Tam O'Shanter's mare. 



> It is a well-knovra fact that witches, or any evil 
puts, have no power to follow a poor wight any fur- 
Jiar than the middle of the next running stream. It may 
t» proper ILtewise to mention to the benigJ ted traveller, 



CXIX. 
ADDRESS OF BEELZEBUB 

TO THE 

PRESIDENT OF THE HIGHLAND SOCIETS. 

[This Poem made its iirst appearance, as 1 was assureA 
by my friend the late Thomas Pringle, in the Scots i?a- 
gazine, for February, 1818, and was printed from L*« 
original in the handwriting of Burns. It was Ueadtt 
thus, " To the Right Honourable the Earl of BreadaU 
tyne. President of the Right Honourable and Honour- 
able the Highland Society, which met on the 23d of May 
last, at the Sliakspeare, Covent Garden, to concert way* 
and means to frustrate the designs of four hundred 
Highlanders, who, as the Society were informed by Mr. 
M. , of A SjWere so audacious as to attempt an es- 
cape from their lawfu.. lairds and masters, whose property 
they were, by emigrating from the lands of Mr. Macdo 
nald, of Glengarry, to the wilds of Canada, in search of 
that fantastic thing — Liberty." The Poem was o^m- 
municated by Buras to his friend Rankine of Adam Will, 
in Ayrshire.] 

Long life, my Lord, an' health be yours, 
Unskaith'd by hunger'd Highland boors ; 
Lord grant uae duddie desperate beggar, 
Wi' dirk, claymore, or rusty ti'igger. 
May twin auld Scotland o' a life 
She likes — as lambkins like a knife. 

Faith, you and A s were right 

To keep the Highland hounds in sight; 
I doubt na ! they wad bid nae better 
Than let them ance out owre the water; 
Then up amang the lakes and seas 
They'll mak' what rules and laws they pleas* 
Some daring Hancock, or a Franklin' ; 
May set their Highland bluid a ranklin' ; 
Some Washington again may head them. 
Or some Montgomery fearless lead them, 
Till God knows what may be effected 
When by such heads and hea,rts directed — 
Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mire 
May to Patrician rights aspire ! 
Nae sage North, now, n"or sager Sackville, 
To watch and premier o'er the pack vile, 
An' whare will ye get Howes and Clintons 
To bring them to a right repentance. 
To cowe the rebel generation. 
An' save the honour o' the nation? 

They an' be d d ! what right hae they 

To meat or sleep, or light o' day ? 
Far less to riches, pow'r, or freedom. 
But what your lordship likes to gie them ? 



that when he falls in with hoghs, whatever dangei 
may be in his going forward, there is much more 
in turning back. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



ITi 



Cut hear, my lord ! Glengarry, hear ! 

Tour hand's owre light on them, I fear; 

Your factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies, 

I canna' say but they do gaylies ; 

They lay aside a' tender mercies, 

An' tirl the hallions to the birses ; 

Yet while they're only poind't and herriet, 

They'll keep their stubborn Highland spirit ; 

But smash them ! crash them a' to spalls ! 

An' rot the dyvors i' the jails ! 

The young dogs, swinge them to the labour ; 

Let wark an' hunger mak' them sober ! 

The hizzies, if theyre aughtlins fawsont, 

Let them in Drury-lane be lesson'd ! 

An' if the wives an' dirty brats 

E'en thigger at your doors an' yetts, 

Flaffan wi' duds an' grey wi' beas', 

Frightin' awa your deuks an' geese, 

Get out a horsewhip or a jowler. 

The langest thong, the fiercest growler, 

An' gar the tattered gypsies pack 

Wi' a' their bastards on their back ! 

Go on, my Lord ! I lang to meet you. 

An' in my house at hame to greet you ; 

Wi' common lords ye shanna mingle, 

Th? benmost neuk beside the ingle, 

At my right han' assigned your seat , 

'T-ween Herod's hip an Polycrate,— 

Or if you on your station tarrow. 

Between Almagro and Pizarro, 

A seat I'm sure ye're weel deservin't ; 

In' till ye come — Your humble rervant, 

Beelzebub 
June 1st, Anno Mundi 5790. 



JOH.'f TAYLOR. 

[f^irxg, t sppears, vas, in one of his excursions in 
tftVft-.Te u-iHtir^is, likehr to be detained at Wanlockhead : 
ths rosds were slipp«^ry with ice, his mare kept her feet 
With diffijK.tyj and aiX the blacksmiths of the village 
wa-'^ prci engaged. To Mr. Taylor, a person of influence 
n ';he piace, the poet, in despair, addressed this little 
Poom, tegging liis interference : Taylor spoke to a smith ; 
the snf. itli flew to his tools, sharpened or frosted the 
shoes, and it is said lived for thirty years to boast that he 
had " never been well paid but ance, and that was by a 
post, who paid him in money, paid him ia drink, and 
9* i him in verse."] 



With Pegasus upon a day, 
Apollo ^eary flying, 



Through frosty hills the journey lay, 
On foot the way was plying, 

Poor slip-shod giddy Pegasus 

Was but a sorry walker ; 
To Vulcan then Apollo goes, 

To get a frosty calker. 

Obliging Vulcan fell to work. 
Threw by his coat and bonnet, 

And did Sol's business in a crack , 
Sol paid him with a sonnet. 

Ye Vulcan's sons of Wanlockhead, 

Pity my sad disaster ; 
My Pegasus is poorly shod — 
I'll pay you like my master. 

Robert Bcens. 
Ramages, 3 o'clock, (rio da'e.) 



MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS, 

ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING. 

[The poet communicated this " Lament" to his frieaa. 
Dr. Moore, in Februaiy, 1791, but it was composed abou 
the close of the preceding year, at the request of Lad* 
Winifred Maxwell Constable, of Terreagles, the Ast in 
direct descent of the noble and ancient house of Max- 
well, of Nithsdale. Burns expressed himself more than 
commonly pleased with this composition; nor was he un 
rewarded, for Lady Winifred gave him a valuable snuff 
box, with the portrait of the unfortunate Mary on the lid 
The bed still keeps its place in Terreagles, on which th« 
queen slept as she was on her way to take refuge with 
her cruel and treacherous cousin, Elizabeth ; and a lettot 
from her no less unfortunate grandson, Charles the First, 
calling the Maxwells to arm in his cause, is preserved ia 
the family arcliives.] 



Now Nature hange her mantle green 

On every blooming tree. 
And spreads her sheets o' daisies whit« 

Out o'er the grassy lea : 
Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams, 

And glads the azure skies ^ 
But nought can glad the weary wight 

That fast in durance lies. 



Now lav'rocks wake the merry nsor^k. 
Aloft on dewy wing; 



176 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



The merle, in liis noontide bow'r, 
Makes woodland echoes ring ; 

The mavis wild wi' mony a note. 
Sings drowsy day to rest: 

In love and freedom they rejoice, 
Wi' care nor thrall oi^prest. 



N -w 'olooms the lily by the bank, 

Th ! primrose down the brae ; 
The hawthorn's budding in the glen, 

And milk-white is the slae ; 
The meanest hind in fair Scotland 

May rove their sweets amang; 
But I, the Queen of a' Scotland, 

Maun lie in prison Strang ! 



I was the Queen o' bonnie France, 

Where happy I hae been ; 
Fu' lightly rase I in the morn. 

As blythe lay down at e'en: 
And I'm the sov'reign o' Scotland, 

And mony a traitor there ; 
Yet here I lie in foreign bands 

And never-ending care. 



But as for thee, thou false woman ! 

Mj' sister and my fae. 
Grim vengeance yet shall whet a sword 

That thro' thy soul shall gae ! 
The weeping blood in woman's breast 

Was never known to thee ; 
Nor th' balm that draps on wounds of w 

Frae woman's pitying e'e. 



My son ! my son ! may kinder stars 

Upon thy fortune shine ; 
And may those pleasures gild thy reign, 

That ne'er wad blink on mine ! 
God keep thee frae thy mother's faes, 

Or turn their hearts to thee : 
And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend 

Remember him for me ! 



0! soon, to me, may summer suns 
Nae mair light up the morn ! 

Xae ma^r, to me, the autumn winds 
Wave o'er the yellow coral 



And in the narrow house o' death 

Let winter round me rave ; 
And the next flow'rs that deck the spring 

Bloom on my peaceful grave ! 



CXXII. 

THE WHISTLE 

["As the authentic prose history," says Burns, " o> 
the ' Whistle' is curious, I shall here give it. In th« 
train of Anne of Denmark, when she came to Scotland 
with our James the Sixth, there came overal.TO a Daiiisli 
gentleman of gignntic stature and great prowess, and a 
matchless champion of Bacchus. He had a little ebony 
whistle, which at the commencement of the orgies, ha 
laid on the table, and whoever was the last able to blow 
it, everybody else being disabled by tlie potency of the 
bottle, was to carry off the whistle as a tropliy of victory. 
The Dane produced credentials of liis victories, without 
a single defeat, at the courts of Copenhagen, Stockholm, 
Moscow, Warsaw, and several of the petty courts in 
Germany; and challenged the Scotch BaccJianalians to 
the tilternative of trying his prowess, or else of acknow- 
ledging their inferiority. After many overthrows on the 
part of tlie Scots, the Dane was encoiuntered by Sii 
Robert Lawrie, of Maxwelton, ancestor of tlie present 
worthy baronet of that name ; who, after three days and 
three nights' hard contest, left the Scandinavian un-le! 
the table, 

' And blew on the whistle his requiem shrill ' 

" Sir Walter, son to Sir Robert before mentioned, 
afterwards lost the whistle to Walter Riddel, of Glen- 
riddel, who had married a sister of Sir Walter's. — On 
Friday, the 16th of October, 1790, at Friars-Carse, the 
whistle was once more contended for, a's related in 
the ballad, by the present Sir Robert of Maxwelton; 
Robert Ridtlel, Esq., of Glenriddel, lineal descendant 
and representative of Walter Riddel, who won the whis- 
tle, and in whose family it had continued ; and Alexandel 
Fergusson, Esq., of Craigdarroch, likewise descended 
of the great Sir Robert ; which last gentleman carried off 
the hard-won honours of the field." 

The jovial contest took place in the dining-room of 
Friars-Carse, in the presence of the Bard, who drank 
bottle and bottle about with them, and seemed quite ils 
posed to take up the conqueror when the day dawned. J 

I SING of a whistle, a whistle of worth, 
I sing of a whistle, the pride of the. North, 
Was brought to +he court of our good Scottisn 

king. 
And long with this whistle all Scotland shall 

ring. 

Old Loda,' still rueing the arm of Fingal, 
The god of the bottle sends down from his hall— < 

1 See Ossian's Caria-thiira. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



1:7 



" This whistle's your challenge — to Scotland get 

o'er, 
^.w\ drink them to hell, Sir ! or ne'er see me 
more '." 

Old poets h-ive sung, and old chronicles tell, 
iVhat champions ventur''d, -what champions fell ; 
The son of great Loda was conqueror still, 
And blew on his whistle his requiem shrill. 

rill Robert, the Lord of the Cairn and the Scaur, 
Unmatch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in war, 
He drank his poor godship as deep as the sea, 
No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he. 

Tkus Robert, yictorious, the trophy has gain'd; 
Wliich now in his house has for ages remain'd ; 
Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood, 
The jovial contest again haye renew' d. 

Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of 

flaw; 
Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and 

law; 
And trusty Glenriddel,«o skill'd in old coins; 
And gallant Sir Robert, deep-read in old wines. 

Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as 

oil, 
Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil; 
Or else he would muster the heads of the clan, 
A.nd once more, in claret, try which was the 

man. 

"By the gods of the ancients!" Glenriddel re- 
plies, 
•' Before I surrender so glorious a prize, 
I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More,' 
And bumper his horn with him twenty times 



Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend, 
But he ne'er turn'd his back on his foe — or his 

friend, 
Saii, toss down the whistle, the prize of the 

field, 
And, knee-deep in claret, he'd die or he'd yield. 

To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair, 
So noted for drowning of sorrow and care ; 
But for wine and for welcome not more known 

to fame 
Than the sense, wit, and taste of a sweet lovely 



See Johnson's Tour to the Hebrides 



A bard was selected to witness the fray. 
And tell future ages the feats of the day ; 
A bard who detested all sadness and spleen, 
And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had beer 

The dinner being over, the claret they ply, 
And ev'ry new cork is a new spring of joy; 
In the bands of old friendship and kindr«d so 

set, 
And the bands grew the tighter the more thej 

were wet. * 

Gay Pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er; 
Bright Phoebus ne'er witness'd so joyous a core, 
And vow'd that to leave them he was quitt 

forlorn, 
Till Cynthia hinted he'd find them next morn. 

Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the night. 
When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight 
Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red. 
And swore 'twas the way that their ancestor 
did. 

Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage. 
No longer the warfare, ungodly, would wage ; 
A high-ruling Elder to wallow in wine ! 
He left the foul business to folks less divine 

The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end, 
But who can with fate and quart-bumpers cop- 

tend? 
Though fate said — a hero shall perish in light j 
So up rose bright Phoebus — and down fell the 

knight. 

Next up rose our bard, like a prophet in drink ; — 
" Craigdarroch, thou'lt soar when creation shall 

sink ; 
But if thou would flourish immor+al in rhyme. 
Come — one bottle more—and have at the g'jb- 

lime ! 

" Thy line, that ha-»-3 s^rngglpd for freedom Trik 

Bruce. 
Shall heroes and patriots ever produce : 
So thine be the laurel, and mine be the .bay , 
The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of 

day !" 



178 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



MISS BURNET, 

OF MONBODDO. 

[Thla benutiful and accomplished ip.dy, the heavenly 
Burnet, as Burns loved to call her, was daughter to the 
odd and the elegant, the clever and the whiinsical Lord 
Monboddo. " la domestic circumstances," savs Robert 
Chambers, "Monboddo was particularly untortunate. 
Hib wife, a very beautiful woman, died in child-bed. His 
son, a promising- boy, in whose education he took great 
elight, was likewise snatched from his affections by a 
premature death ; and his second daughter, in personal 
loireliness one of the first women of the age, was cut off 
by consumption, when c)nly twenty-five years old." Her 
name was Klizabeth.] 

Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize 
As Burnet, lovely from her native skies; 
Nor envious death so triumph'd in a blow, 
As that which laid th' accomplish'd Burnet low. 

Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget? 
In richest ore the brightest jewel set! 
In thee, high Heaven above was truest shown, 
As by his noblest work, the Godhead best is 
known. 

in vain ye flaunt in summer's pride, ye groves ; 

Thou crystal streamlet with thy flowery shore, 
Ye woodland choir that chant your idle loves. 

Ye cease to charm — Eliza is no more ! 

Fe heathy wastes, immix'd with reedy fens ; 

Ye mossy streams, with sedge and rushes 
stor'd ; 
S'e rugged clifi's, o'erhanging dreary glens, 

To you I fly, ye with my soul accord. 

princes, whose cumb'rous pride was all their 
worth, 

Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail ? 
And thou, sweet excellence ! forsake our earth, 

A ad not a muse in honest grief bewail ? 

W e saw thee shine in youth and beauty s pride. 
And virtue's light, that beams beyond the 
spheres ; 

But like the sun eclips'd at morning tide, 
Thcu left'st us darkling in a world of tears. 

Fbe parent's heart that nestled fond in thee, 
That heart how sunk, a prey to grief and 
care ; 

Ho lock'd the woodbine sweet yon aged tree ; 
Bt from it ravist'd, leaves it bleak and bare 



CXXIV. 
LAMENT 

FOR 

JAMES, EARL OF GLENCAIRN. 

[Burns lamented the death of this kind and acccn 
plished nobleman with melancholy sincerity : h« incr«. 
over named one of his sons for liim : he went into moarn 
ing when he heard of his death, and lie sung of his merii* 
in a strair. r-it destined soon to lose the place it hns talro» 
among verses which record the names ( f the noble and 
the generous. He died January 30. 1791, in the fcrhf- 
second year of his age. James Cunningham ^vas sno- 
ceeded in his title by his brother, and with him expired, 
in 1796, the last of a race, whose name is intimately 
connecttd with tJie History of ScoMand, from the dayi 
of Malcolm Canmore.] 



The wind blew hollow frae the hills. 

By fits the sun's departing beam 
Look'd on the fading yellow woods 

That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream : 
Beneath a craggy steep, a bard. 

Laden with years and meikle pain, 
In loud lament be-wail'd his lord. 

Whom death had all untimely ta'en. 

II. 

He lean'd him to an ancient aik, [years ; 

Whose trunk was mould'ring down with 
His locks were bleached white with time, 

His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears ; 
And as he touch'd his trembling harp. 

And as he tun'd his doleful sang. 
The winds, lamenting thro' their, caves. 

To echo bore the notes alang. 

IIP. 

" Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sing, 

The reliques of the vernal quire ! 
Ye woods that shed on a' the winds 

The honours of the aged year ! 
A few short months, and glad and gay, 

Again ye'll charm the ear and e'e ; 
But nocht in all revolving time 

Can gladness bring again to me. 



" I am a bending aged tree. 

That long has stood the wind and ram; 
But now has come a cruel blast. 

And my last hold of earth is gane : 
Nae Leaf o' mine shall greet the spring, 

Nae simmer sun exalt my I loom; 
But I maun lie before the storm, 

And ithers plant them in my room. 



OF KOBEET BUKNS. 



m 



•' I've seen sae mony changefu' years, 

On earth I am a stranger grown ; 
[ wander in the ways of men, 

Alike unknowing and unknown: 
Unheard, unpitied, unrelieved, 

"f bear alane my lade o' care, 
For silent, low, on beds of dust, 

' 'e a' that would my sorrows share. 

VI. 

' And last (the sum of a' my griefs !) 

My noble master lies in clay ; 
The flow'r amang our barons bold, 

His country's pride ! his country's stay — 
In weary being now I pine, 

For a' the life of life is dead, 
A.nd hope has left my aged ken. 

On forward wing for ever fled. 



" Awake thy last sad voice, my harp ! 

The voice of woe and wild despair ; 
Awake ! resound thy latest lay — 

Then sleep in silence evermair ! 
And thou, my last, best, only f>nend. 

That fillest an untimely tomb, 
A.ccept this tribute from the bard [gloom. 

Though brought from fortune's mirkest 



" In poverty's low barren vale 

Thick mists, obscure, involv'd me round 
Though oft I turn'd the wistful eye, 

Nae ray of fame was to be found : 
Thou found'st me, like the morning sun, 

That melts the fogs in limpid air, 
The friendless bard and rustic song 

Became alike thy fostering care. 



•' ! why has worth so short a date ? 

While villains ripen gray with time ; 
Must thou, the noble, gen'rous, great. 

Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime ! 
Why did I live to see that day ? 

A day to me so full of woe ! — 
had I met the mortal shaft 

Which laid my benefactor Iotv 



' The bridegroom may forget the bride 
Was made his wedded wife yestreen ; 

The monarch may forget the crown 
That on hia head an h rur has oeen ; 



The mother may forget the child 

That smiles sae sweetly, on her knee; 

But Xni remember thee, Glencairn, 
And a' that thou hast done for me I" 



SENT TO 

SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD, BART.. 

or WHITEFOORD. 
WITH THE FOREGOING POEM. 

[Sir John Whitefoord, a name of old standing h) 
Ayrshire, inherited the love of his family for literatuie, 
and interested himself early in tne fame and fortunes o' 
Burns.] 

Thou, who thy honour as thy God rever'st. 
Who, save thy mind's reproach, nought earthly 

fear'st, 
To thee this votive oflFenng I impart, 
The tearful tribute of a broken heart. * 

The friend thou valuedst, I, the patron, }ov'd ; 
His worth, his honour, all the world approv'd, 
We'll mourn till we too go as he has gone. 
And tread the dreary path to that dark worM 

unknown. . 



CXXVI. 



ADDRESS 



THE SHADE OF THOMSON, 

ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM WITH BAT*. 

[" Lord Buchan has the pleasure to invite Mr. Buiiii 
to make one at the coronation of the bust of Thomson, 
on Ednani Hill, on the 22d of ^eptemler : for w^hich day 
perhaps his muse may inspire an ode suited to the occa- 
sion. Suppose Mr. Burns should, leaving the Nith, go 
across the country, and meet the Tweed at the nearest 
point from his farm, and, wandering along the pastoral 
banks of Thomson's pure parent stream, catch inspiration 
in the devious walk, till he finds Lord Buchan sitting on 
the ruins of Dryburgh. Tliere the Commendator will 
give him a hearty welcome, and try to light his lamp al 
the pure flame of native gei ius, upon the altar of Cale- 
dunifin virtue." Such was the invitatitm of the Earl of 
Buchan to Burns. To request the poet to lay down hit 
sickle when his harvest was half reaped, and travBTB* 



180 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



jne of the wildest and most untrodden ways in Scotland, 
for ihe purpose of looking at the fantastic coronation of 
the bad bust of an excellent poet, was worthy of Lord 
Buchan. The poor bard made answer, that a week's 
■ibsence in the middle of his harvest was a step he durst 
not venture upon — but he sent this Poem. 

The poet's manuscript alTords the following interesting 
»a I'iations : — 

" Whi.s BDid-eyed Spring, a virgin coy, 

UnfoUs lier verdant mantle sweet. 
Or prunks ^he sod in frolic joy, 
A carpet for her youthful feet : 

" While Summer, with a matron's grace, 
Walks stately in the cooling shade, 

And oft delighted loves to trace 
The progress of tlie spiky blade : 

" While Autumn, benefactor kind, 

With age's hoary honours clad. 
Surveys, with self-approving mind, 

Each creature on his bounty fed." 

■While virgin Spring, by Eden's flood, 

Unfolds her tender mantle green, 
Or pranks the sod in frolic mood, 
Or tunes ^olian strains between : 

W^hile Summer, with a matron grace, 
Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade, 

Fet oft, delighted, stops to trace 
The progress of the spiky blade : 

While Autumn, benefactor kind, 
By Tweed erects his aged head, 

And sees, with self-approving mind, 
Each creature on his bounty fed : 

While maniac Winter rages o'er 

The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, 

Rousing the turbid torrent's roar, 
Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows : 

So long, sweet Poet of the year ! 

Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won ; 
While Scotia, with exulting tear, 

Proclaims that Thomson was her son. 



ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ., 

OF FINTRAY. 

By this Poem Bums prepared the way for his humble 
TBjuest to be removed to a district more moderate in its 
Bounds than one which extended over ten country 
^aiisiies, and exposed him both to fatigue and exj^^nse. 



This wish was expressed in prose, and was in d'.ie tinbs 
attended to, for I'intray was a gentleman at once kin* 
and considerate.] 

Late crippl'd of an arm, and now a leg, 
About to beg a pass for leave to beg : 
Dull, listless, teas'd, dejected, and deprest, 
(Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest ;) 
Will generous Graham list to his Poet's wail ? 
(It soothes poor misery, hearkening to her tale, 
And hear him curse the light he first surveyed, 
And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade ' 

Thou, Nature, partial Nature ! t arraign ; 
Of thy caprice maternal I complain : 
The lion and the bull thy care have found, 
One shakes the forests, and one spurns tb« 

ground : 
Thou giv'st the ass his hide, the snail his shell, 
Th' envenom'd wasp, victorious, guards his cellj 
Thy minions, kings, defend, control, devour 
In all th' omnipotence of rule and power ; 
Foxes and statesmen, subtile wiles insure ; 
The cit and polecat stink, and are secure ; 
Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug, 
The priest and hedgehog in their robes ara 

snug; 
Ev'n silly woman has h* warlike arts. 
Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear an! 

darts ; — 
But, oh ! thou bitter stepmother and hard. 
To thy poor fenceless, naked child — the Bard I 
A tjiing unteachable in world's skill, 
And half an idiot too, more helpless still ; 
No heels to bear him from the op'nin'g dun ; 
No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun ; 
No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn. 
And those, alas! not Amalthea's horn: 
No nerves olfact'ry, Mammon's trusty cur. 
Clad in rich dullness' comfortable fur ; — 
In naked feeling, and in aching pride, 
Ke bears the unbroken blast from every side 
Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart, 
And scorpion critics cureless venom dart. 

Critics ! — appall'd I venture on the name> 
Those cut-throat bandits iri the paths of fam« 
Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes ! 
He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose. 

His heart by causeless wanton malice wrung. 
By blockheads' daring into madness stung ; 
His well-won bays, than life itself more dear. 
By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig mu?( 
wear : 



Poil'l, bleeding, tortur'd, in the unequal strife, 
The hapless poet flounders on through life ; 
Till, fled each hope that once" his bosom fir'd, 
And fled each muse that glorious once inspir'd, 
Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age, 
Dead, even resentment, for his injur'd page, 
He heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic's 
rage ! 

So, by some hedge, the gen'rous steed deceas'd, 
For half-starv'd snarling curs a dainty feast : 
By toil and famine wore to skin and bone. 
Lies senseless of each tugging bitch's son. 

dullness ! portion of the truly blest ! 
Calm shelter'd haven of eternal rest ! 

Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes 
Of fortune's polar frost, or torrid beams. 
If mantling high she fills the golden cup, 
With sober selfish ease they sip it up ; 
Conscious the bounteous meed they well de- 
serve. 
They only wonder "some folks" do not starve. 
The grave sage hern thus easy picks his frog,. 
And thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog. 
When disappointment snaps the clue of hope, 
And thro' disastrous night they darkling grope, 
With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear, 
And just conclude that "fools are fortune's 

care." 
Bo, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks, 
Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox. 

Not so the idle muses' mad-cap train, 

Not such the workings of their moon-struck 

brain ; 
In equanimity they never dwell. 
By turns in soaring heav'n or vaulted hell 

1 dread thee, fate, relentless and severe. 
With all a poet's, husband's, father's fear! 
Already one strong hold of hope is lost, 
Grlencairn, the truly n>ible, lies in dust ; 
(FieJ, like the sun eclips'd a? noon appears, 
Ani left us darkling in a world of tears :) 

! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray'r ! — 
Fintray, my other stay, long bless and spare! 
Thro' a long life his hopes and wishes crown ; 
And bright in cloudless skies his sun go down ! 
May bliss domestic smooth his private path ; 
Give energy to life ; and soothe his latest breath, 
l^itli ma'\y a filial tear circling the bed of death! 



ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ., 



OF FINTEAY. 



[Graham of Fintraj^ not only ottained for the poet I6f 
appointment in the Excise, w^hich, while he liver! ia 
Edinburgh, he desired, but he alsc removed him as tl 
wished, to a better district; and woen imputations were 
thrown out against his loyalty, he defended him With 
obstinate and successful eloquence. Fintray did all that 
was done to raise Burns out of the toiling humility of hil 
condition, and enable him to serve the muse without f9a* 
of want.] 



I CALL no goddess to inspire my strains, 
A fabled muse may suit a bard that feigns = 
Friend of my life ! my ardent spirit burns. 
And all the tribute of my heart returns,* 
For boons accorded, goodness ever new. 
The gift still dearer, as the giver, you, 

Thoa orb of day ! thou other paler light! 
And all ye many sparkling stars of night ; 
If aught that giver from my mind efface ; 
If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace ; 
Then roll to me, alon^ your wandering spheresi 
Only to number out a villain's years ! 



A VISION. 



[Tliis Vision of Liberty descended on Burns amenng ti. 
magnificent ruins of the College of Lineluden, whicii 
stand on the junction of the Cluden and tlie Nith, „ shor» 
mile above Dumfries. He gave us the Vision ; peihaps. 
he dared not in th^^se yeasty times venture on the son^ 
which his secret visitant poured from her lips, Th« 
scene is chiefly copied from nature : the swe/lings oi' th« 
Nith, tho bowlings of the fox on the hill, -jnd the crv o( 
the owl, unite at times with the nature beauty of iM 
spot, and give it life and voice. These ruins wei* * 
favourite haunt of the poet.] 

As I stood by yon roofless tower. 

Where the wa' -flower scents the dewy air, 

Where th' howlet mourns in her ivy bower 
And tells the midnight moon her care ■ 

The winds were laid, the air was still, 
The stars they shot along the sky ; 

The fox was howling on the hill, 
And the distant ech^iing glens reply. 



182 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



The stream, adowa its hazelly path, 
Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's, 

Hasting to join the sweeping Nith,i 
Whose distant roaring swells and fals. 

The cauld blue north was streaming forth 
Her lights, wi' hissing eerie din; 

Athort the lift they start and shift, 
Like fortune's favours, tint as win. 

3y heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes, 
And, by the moonbeam, shook to see 

A stern and stalwart ghaist arise, 
Attir'd as minstrels wont to be.^ 

Had I a statue been o' stane, 
His darin' look had daunted me ; 

And on his bonnet grav'd was plain, 
The sacred posy — ' Libertie!' 

And frae his harp sic strains did flow, 

Might rous'd the slumb'ring dead to hear; 

But, oh ! it was a tal* of woe, 
As ever met a Briton's ear. 

He sang wi' joy the former day. 
He weeping wail'd his latter times ; 

But what he said it was nae play, — 
I win^a ventur't in my rhymes. 



JOHN MAXWELL OF TERRAUGHTY, 



ON 



IRTH-DAT. 



f.Iohn Miixwell of Terraughty und Munshes, to whom 
lliese veises are iiddressed, though descended from the 
Eorls of Nithsdale, cared liMle about lineage, and claim- 
ed merit only from a judgment sound and clear — a know- 
le'lj<<! of business whioh penetrated into all the concerns 
i>f' life and a skill in handling the most difficult subjects, 
wliicli was considered unrivalled. Under an austere 
mann^!!, he hid much kindness of heart, and was in a 
fiiir way of doing an act of gentleness when giving a re- 
"nsal^ He loved to meet Burns : not that he either cared 
for or ci Tiprehended poetry; but he was pleased with 
bift kr'jwledge of human nature, and with the keen and 



VARIATIONS. 

1 To join yon river on the Strath. 

2 Now looking over firth and fauld, 

Her horn the pale-fac'd Cynthia rear'd ; 
When, lo, in form of minstrel auld, 
A stern and stalwart ghaist appear'd. 



piercing remarks in which he indulged. He was seves 
ty-one years old when these verses were written, an 
survived the poet twenty years.] 

Health to the Maxwell's vet'ran chief! 
Health, ay unsour'd by care or grief: 
Inspir'd, I turn'd Fate's sybil leaf 

This natal morn ; 
I see thy life is stuff o' prief. 

Scarce quite half W\.rn 

This day thou metes three score eleven, 
And I can tell that bounteous Heaven 
(The second sight, ye ken, is given 

To ilka Poet) 
On thee a tack o' seven times seven 

Will yet bestow it. 

.If envious buckles view wi' sorrow 
Thy lengthen'd days on this blest morrow, 
May desolation's lang teeth'd harrow. 

Nine miles an hour, 
Fiake them like Sodom and Gomorrah, 

In brunstane stoure — 

But for thy friends, and they are mouy, 
Baith honest men and lasses bonnie, 
May couthie fortune, kind and cannie. 

In social glee, 
Wi' mornings blythe and e'enings funny 

Bless them and thee ' 

Fareweel, auld birkie ! Lord be near'ye. 
And then the Deil he daur na steer ye ; 
Your friends ay love, your faes ay fear ye ; 

For me, shame fa' me, 
If neist my heart I dinna wear ye 

AVhile BuKNS they ca' me 

Dumfries, 18 Feb 1792. 



THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN. 

AN OCCASIONAL ADI1KB8S SPOKEN B\ MISS FONTS "SI.LB 

ON HER BENEFIT NIGHT, 

Nov. 26, 1792. 

[Miss Fontenelle was one of the actresses wh"m Wil 
llamson, th» manager, brought for several seasons tc 
Dumfries: she was young and pretty, indulged jn littl« 
.evitiesof speech, and rumouraddeil, perhaps m:i!icioL:B!y 
levities of notion The Rights ot M.oi had been adv) 
cated by Paine, he Rights of Woman by Hl^ry Wj 



OF KOBEKT BUIINkS. 



183 



itoiiacroft, and nought was talked of, but the moral and 
polit'fal regeneration of the world. The line 

" But truce with kings and truce with constitutions," 
pot an uncivil twist in recitation, from some of the audi- 
Brce. Thewi ^s were eagerly caught up, and had some 
hisses bestoweo on them.] 

Whils Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty things, 
llie fase of cmp res and th-. fall of kings; 
fihUc quacko of state mcst each produce his 

plan, 
And even children lisp the Rights of Man ; 
Ami 1 this mighty fuss just let me mention, 
The Rights of Woman merit some attention. 

First on the sexes' intermix'd connexion, 
One sacred Right of Woman is protection. 
The tender flower that lifts its head, elate. 
Helpless, must fall before the blasts of fate, 
Sunk on the earth, defac'd its lovely form, 
Unless your shelter ward th' impending storm. 

Our second Right — ^but needless here is caution, 
To keep that right inviolate's the fashion, 
Each man of sense has it so full before him. 
He'd die berf'ore he'd wrong it — 'tis decorum. — 
Th»re was, indeed, in far less polish'd days, 
A time, when rough, rude man had naughty 

ways; 
Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a riot, 
Nay, even thus invade a lady's quiet. 

ff ow, thank our stars ! these Gothic times are fled ; 
Now, well-bred men — and you are all well- 
bred- 
Most justly think (and we are much the gainers) 
Buch conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manners. 

For Right the third, our last, our best, our 

dearest, 
That right to fluttering female hearts the nearest. 
Which even the Rights of Kings in low pros- 
tration 
Sh-y humbly own — 'tis dear, dear admiration! 
Ie 'hit ')lest sphere alone ve livt and move; 
TUe.re taste that life of lite — ncrmortal love. — 
Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, airs, 
'Gainst such an host what flinty savage dares — 
tVhen awful Beauty joins with all her charms. 
Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms ? 

But truce with kings and truce with constitutions, 
With bloody armaments and revolutions, 
Let majesty your first attention summon, 
Ih ' <;a ira ! the majesty or woman ! 



M N r y, 

ON A LADY FAMED FOR HER JAPBICB. 

[The heroine of this rough lampoon was Mrs Ridd* 
of Woodleigh Park: a lady young and guy, mu .h of a 
wit, and something of a poetess, and till tlje lioui of, hii 
death the friend of Burns himself. She pulled h s di8 
pleasure on her, it is snid, by smiling more sweetly thai 
he liked on some "epauletted coxcomiis," for so n« 
sometimes designated commissioned officers: the laJy 
soon laughed him out of his mood. We owe to her pen 
an account of her last interview with the poet, writtws 
with great beauty and feeling.] 

Jicfw cold is that bosom which folly once fireti. 
How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately 
glisten' d ! 
How silent that tongue which the echoes oft 
tired. 
How dull is that ear which to flattery so lis- 
ten'd ! 

If sorrow and anguish their exit await, 

From friendship and dearest affection re- 
mov'd ; 

How doubly severer, Maria, thy fate, 

Thou diest unwept as thou livedst unlov'd 

Loves, Graces, and Virtues, I call not on you ; 

So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a tear- 
But come, all ye ofi"spring of Folly so true. 

And flowers let us cull for Maria's cold bier. 

We'll search through the garde" ''or each silly 
flower. 
We'll roam through the forest for each idle 
weed ; 
But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower, 

For none e'er approach'd her but rued the 
rash deed. 

We'll sculpture the marble, we'll measure the 
-lay; 
Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre ; 
There keen indignation shall dart on her prey, 
Which spurning Contempt shall redeem frora 
his ire. 



THE EPITAPH. 

Here lies, now a prey to insulting negleci:. 
What once was a butterfly, gay in life's bea 

Want only of wisdom denied her respect, 
Want only of goodness denied her esteem 



184 



THE POETICAL VrOllKS 



fROM 

ESOPUS TO MARIA. 

[Williamson, tlie actor, Colonel Macdouall, Captaic 
BlUespio, and Mrs. Riddel, are the characters which pass 
■)«••_' ';ii« sta^' in this strange composition: it is printed 
fri ■;ii the Poe 's own manuscript, and seems a sort of 
Ois'.fM uriiig of wrath and contempt, on persons wno, in his 
eyes, gave themselves airs beyond their condition, or 
their merits. The verse of the lady is held up to con- 
tempt and laughter: the satirist celebrates her 

" Motley foundling fancies; stolen or strayed;" . 
end has a passing hit at her 

" Still matchless tongue that conquers all reply."] 

From those drear solitudes and frowsy cells, 
Where infamy with sad repentance dwells ; 
Where turnkeys make the jealous portal fast, 
And deal from iron hands the spare repast ; 
Where truant 'prentices, yet young in sin, I 

Blush at the curious stranger peeping in ; 
Where strumpets, relics of the drunken roar, ' 
Resolve to drink, nay, half to whore, no uior'. , 
Where tiny thieves not destin'd yet to swii^g, 
Beat hemp for others, riper for ika stixcg : 
From these dire scenes ray wre' jhe''. lines I date. 
To tell Maria her Esopus' fj,te 

" Alas ! I feel I am no ac'.or here !" 

'Tis real hangmen, res.x scourges bear! 

Prepare, Maria, for a t.orrid tale 

Will turn thy ve.y rouge to deadly pale ■ 

Will make thy hair, tho' erst from gipsy p.oUed, 

By barber vvoven, and by barber sold, 

Though twit^ted smooth with Harry's niceLit ^are. 

Like hoary bristles .to erect and stare. 

The hero of the mimic scene, no more t 

I start in Hamlet, in Othello roar ; I 

Or haughty Chieftain, 'mid the din of arpcis, ' 

In Highland bonnet woo Malvina's charms ; | 

While sans culottes stoop up the mountain hi^k, J 

ind f'eal from me Maria's prying eye. | 

Bls«1 Highland bonnet ! Once my proudest v 

dress, 
Nc w prouder still, Maria's temples press. | 

I see her wave thy towering plumes afar, ] 

And call each coxcomb to the wordy war. 
I see her face the first of Ireland's sons,' 
And even out-Irish his Hibernian bronze ; 
The crafty colonel^ leaves the tartan'd lines, 
For other wars, where he a hero shines ; 

I Captain Gillespie. 



The hopeful youth, in Scottish senate bred, 
Who owns a Bushby's heart without the head; 
Comes, 'mid a string of coxcombs to display 
That veni, vidi, vici, is his way : 
The shrinking bard adown the alley skulks. 
And dreads a meeting worse thin Woolwicl 

hulks ; 
Though there, his heresies in church und statd 
Might well award him Muir and Palmer's fate 
Still she .undaunted reels and rattles on. 
And dares the public like a noontide sun. 
(What scandal call'd Maria's janty stagger 
The ricket reeling of a crooKed swagger, 
Whose spleen e'en worse than Burns' venom wlicT 
He dips in gall unmix'd his eager pen, — 
And pours his vengeance in the b-*rniag line, 
Who christen'd thus Marids l^re divine ; 
The idiot strum of var.ity bemused. 
And even th' &buse of poesy abused ! 
Who call'd her veioC, a parish workhouse made 
For moueyfvundling fancies, stolen or stray'd?) 

A i.orkhouse ! ah, that sound awakes my woes, 
And pillows on the thorn my rack'd repose ! 
In durance vile here must I wake and weep. 
And all my frowsy couch in sorrow steep ; 
That straw where many a rogue has lain of yore, 
And vermin'd gipsies litter'd heretofore. 

Why, Lonsdale, thus thy wrath on vagranti 

pour? 
Must earth no rascal save thyself endure ? 
Must thou alone in guilt immortal swell, 
And make a vast monopoly of hell ? 
Thou know'st, the vi.Hues cannot hate thee worse 
The vices also, must they club their curse ? 
Or must no tiny sin to others fall, 
Because thy guilt's supreme enough for all ' 

Maria send me too thy griefs and cares; 
In tJ'. f.f thee sure thy Esopus shares. 
j|is thc^i at all mankind the flag unfurls, 
WLo on \yxy fair one satire's vengeance hurls? 
AVho oaUs uhee, pert, affected, vain coquette, 
'a wii u- foUj and a fool in wit? 
Who says, that ''ool ixloiie is not thy due, 
And quotes vhy ta <^acheries to prove it true T 
Our force unito-i on Ihy foes we'll turn, 
And dare the wa^' wivh all of woman born: 
For who can write and -^peak an tho i and I? 
My periods that deciphe)'ing defy. 
And thy still matchless tongue th'it conquers H 
reply. 

2 Col. M*fi^.'^»*\. 



Oi? EOBEET BURNS. 



18» 



POE.M 

UN PASTORAL POETKY. 

[Though Gilbert BunjB says there is some donlt of 
mis Poem being by his brother, and though Robert Cha>n- 
)ers declares timt ae " has scarcely a doubt that it is not 
>/ the Ayrshire Bard," I must print it as his, for 1 have 
«■! doubt on the subject. It was found among the papers 
^-^ the poet, in his own handwriting: the second, the 
■(lurtli; and tlie concluding verses bear the Burns' atxirap, 
which no cne lias been successful in counterfeiting: 
■>iey resemble the verses of Beattie, to which Chambers 
las compared them, as little as the cry of the ea^le rs- 
lembles the chirp of the wren.] 



Hail Poesie ! thou Nymph reserv'd! 

tn chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerv'd 

Frae .;ommon sense, or sunk enerv'd 

'Mang heaps o' clavers ; 
And ocii ' o'er aft thy joes hae starv'd 

Mid a' thy favours ! 

Say, Lassie, why thy train amang, 
While load the trump's heroic clang, 
And sock or buskin skelp alang, 

To death or marriage ; 
Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang 

But wi' miscarriage ? 

In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives; 
Eschylus' pen Will Shakspeare drives ; 
Wee Pope, the knurlin, 'till him rives 

Horatian fame ; 
In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives 

Even Sappho's flame. 

Buf thee, Theocrnus, wha matches? 
They're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches ; 
Squire Pope but busf>s his skinklin patchc 

C heathen tatters ; 
I pass by hunders, nameless wretches, 

Tha ape their be ie .r 

In this braw age o' wit an>.- lear, 
Will nane the Shepherd's whistle ir Ai 
Blaw sweetly in its native ai 

And rural gr'^oce. ; 
And wi' the far-fam'd Greciaii n'aare 

A rival p'dv.<^ 'I 

f es ! there is ane ; a Scottish caiian — 
There's ane ; come forrit, honest Allan i 
Thou need ua jo<;.k jehint the hallan, 

Achiel sae clever; 
Che teeth o' tii.. rjay gnaw Tantallan, 

£at thou's f jr ever I 



Thou paints auld nature to the nines, 

Tn thy sweet Caledonian lines ; 

Nae gowden stream thro' myrtles twines, 

Where Philomel, 
While nightly breezes sweep the vines, 

Her griefs will tell I 

Iii gowany glens thy buruie strays, 
Where bonnie lasses bleach their, claes ; 
Or trots by haaelly shaws and braes. 

Wi' hawthorns giay, 
Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays 

At close o' dav 

Thy rural loves ore nature s sel' ; 
Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell ; 
Nae snap conceits, bat that sweet spell 

0' witciiiii' love; 
That charm that can the strongest quell. 

The svernest niov*> 



SONx^E'i, 

WRITTEN ON THE T'., ENi f-FtFTH C* JAVriEf, ITU 

THE BIRTHDAY OF HF A.VTRyiR, C, HJSJ.'-.j«J A 

THRUjH iHQ IN.* MOilMNvi VILK. 

[Burns -was fonr" of? saunter in a leafless wood, whor 
the winter .cor.a howled among the brtnches. These 
charpxt*^ "ist^ j lip js were composed on th« morning of liii 
b'Tfch'' ly, with the Nith at his feet, and the ruins of 
Li' jlu^en ?;.£ his side: he is willing to accept the un 
' -okid-for song of the thrush as a fortuuate omsn.] 

liinG on, sweet thrush, upon the leafiess bough. 
Sing on, s-v^eet bird, I listen to thy btraLn : 
See, aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign, 

At thy blythe carol clears his fui-row'd brow. 

So, ie lone Poverty's dominion drear, 

Sits meek Content with light unanxicus heart, 
Welcomes the rapid moments, bids thera part. 

Nor asks if they bring anght to hope or fear. 

I thank Thee, Author uf this opening day ! 

Thou whose bright at^n now gilds yon orieui 
skies ! 

Riches denied, Thj 'toon was purer jjys, 
What wealth could m;ver give nor take away. 

Yet come, thou child c f poverty and care. 
The mite high Heaven bestoff'd, that mite witli 
thee I'll share 



l86 



THE POETICAL WOEKS 



CXXXVI. 
SONNE T, 

39 THE 

DEATH OF ROBERT RIDDEL, ESQ. 

or GLENEIDDEL 

Apkil, 1794. 

[The ileatii ol Glencairn, who was his patron, and the 
i«»to of Glenriddel, who was his friend, and had, while 
he lived at Ellisland, been his neighbour, weighed hard 
on the mind of Burns, wlio, about this time, began to 
regain his own future fortune with more of dismay tlian 
of liope. Riddel united antiquarian pursuits with those of 
iterature, and experienced all the vulgar prejudices en- 
"■ertained by the peasantry against those who indulge in 
such researches. His collection of what tlie rustics of 
the vale called "queer quairns and swine-troughs," ia 
now scattered or neglected; I have heard a competent 
judge say, that they threw light on both the public and 
domestic histonf of Scotland.] 

No more, ye warblers of the wood — no more ! 
Nor pour your- descant, grating, on my soul ; 
Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy yerdant 
stole, 
More welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest 
roar. 

How can ye charm, ye flow'rs, with all your dyes ? 
Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend : 
How can I to the tuneful strain attend ? 

That strain flows round th' untimely tomb where 
Riddel lies. 

Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe ! 
And. soothethe "Virtues weeping on this bier: 
The Man of Worth, who has not left his peer. 

Is in his " narrow house" for ever darkly low. 

Thee, Spring, again w'*b joy shall others greet, 
Me, mem'ry of my )pw will only meet. 



ON 



CXXXVII. 
IMPROMPTU, 
MRS. R 'S BIRTHDAY. 



[By compliments such as these lines contain, Burns 
■oothed the smart which his verses " On a lady famed 
for her caprice" inflicted on the accomplished Mrs. 
Riddel.] 

Old Winter, with his frosty beard, 

Thus once to Jove his prayer preferr'd, — 



What have I done of all the year, 
To bear this hated doom severe ? 
My cheerless suns no pleasure know ; 
Night's horrid car drags, dreary, slow ; 
My dismal months no joys are crowning. 
But spleeny English, hanging, drowning. 

Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil, 

To counterbalance all t'uis evil ; 

Give me, and I've no more to say. 

Give me Maria's natal day ! 

That brilliant gift shall so enrich me, 

Spring, Summer, Autumn, cannot match ia« 

'Tis done ! says Jove ; so ends my story. 

And Winter once rejoic'd in glory. 



LIBERTY. 

A FRAGMENT. 



[Fragments of verse were numerous', Dr. Uurrie said 
among the loose papers of the poet. These lines formed 
the commencement of an ode commemorating the achieve- 
ment of liberty for America, under the directing genial 
of Washington and Franklin.] 

Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among. 
Thee, fam'd for martial deed and sacred song- 

To thee I turn with swimming eyes ; 
Where is that soul of freedom fled ? 
Immingled with the mighty dead ! 

Beneath the hallow'd turf where Wallace h» 1 
Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death!" 

Ye babbling winds, in silence sweep ; 

Disturb not ye the hero's sleep. 
Nor give the coward secret breath. 

Is this the power in freedom's war. 

That wont to bid the battle rage ? 
Behold that eye which shot immortal hate, 

Crushing the despot's proudest bearing I 



CXXXIX. 

VER-SES 

TO A YOUNG LADY. 

[This young 'ady was tie l^ugbtSj- of th» 
friend, Graham of Fintrav; and tie gjft al uceU t. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



187 



»opy of George Thomson's Select Scottish Songs: a 
Work which owes many attractions to tlie lyric genius of 
Bums-] 

Heee, where tlie Scottish muse immortal lives, 
la fcacred strains and tuneful numbers join'd, 

Ac'yJpt tbe gift ; — tho' humble he who gives, 
Eich is the tribute of the grateful mind. 

So may no ruffian feeling in thy breast, 
Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among; 

But peace attune thy gentle soul to rest, 
Or love ecstatic wako his seraph song. 

Or pity's notes in luxury of tears. 

As modest want the tale of woe reveals ; 

While conscious virtue all the strain endears, 
And heaven-born piety her sanction seals. 



THE VOWELS. 



A TALE. 

[Burns admired genius adorned by learning ; but mere 
learning without genius lie always regarded as pedanti-y. 
Those critics who scrupled too much about words he 
tailed euiiuchs of literature, and to one, who taxed him 
with writing obscure language iu questionable grammar, 
he said, " Thou art but a Gretna-green match-maker be- 
tween vowels and consonants !"] 

'TwAS where the birch and sounding thong are 

ply'd, 
The noisy domicile of pedant pride; 
Where ignorance her darkening vapour throws, 
And cruelty directs the thickening blows ; 
Upon a time, Sir Abece the great. 
In all his pedagogic powers elate, 
His awfvil chair of state resolves to mount, 
And call the trembling vowels to account. — 

First enter'd A. a grave, broad, solemn wight. 
But, ah! deform' d, dishonest to the sight! 
His twisted head look'd backward on the way. 
And flagrant from the scourge he grtmted, ai! 

Reluctant, E stalk'd in ; with piteous race 
Ihe justling tears ran down his honest face ! 
That name ! that well-worn name, and fell his 

own. 
Pale he surrenders at the tyrant's throne ! 
The pedant stifles keen the Roman sound 
Vot all h'.E mongrel diphthongs can compound; 



And next the title following close behind. 
He to the nameless, ghastly wretch assign'd. 

The eobweb'd gothic dome resounded Y ! 
In sullen vengeance, I, disdain'd reply : 
The pedant swung his felon cudgel round. 
And knock' d the groaning vowel to the grounl 

In rueful apprehension enter'd 0, 
The wailing minstrel of despairing woe ; 
Th' Inquisitor of Spain the most expert 
Might there have learnt new mysteries of his art 
So grim, deform'd, with horrors entering U, 
His dearest friend and brother scarcely knew I 

As trembling U stood staring all aghast, 
The pedant in his left hand clutched him fast, 
In helpless infants' tears he dipp'd his right, 
Baptiz'd him eu, and kick'd him from his sigh* 



VERSES 
TO JOHN RANKIN K 

[With the " rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine," tM 
Adam-hill, in Ayrshire, Barns kept up a will o'-wispish 
sort of a correspondence in rhyme, till the day of hii 
death : these communications, of which this is one, ware 
sometimes graceless, but always witty. It is supposed 
that these lines were suggested by Falstaff's accounj 
of his ragged recruits : — 

"I'll not march through Coventry with them, that'a 
flat!"] 

Ae day, as Death, that grusome carl 
Was driving to the tither warl' 
A mixtie-maxtie motley squad, 
And mony a guilt-bespotted lad ; 
Black gowns of each denomination, 
A^ad thieves of every rank and station, 
From him that wears the star and garter, 
To him that wintles in a halter : 
Asham'd himsel' to see the wretches, 
He mutters, glowrin' at the bitches, 
"By G — d, I'll not be seen behint them, 
Nor 'mang the sp'ritual core present theittj 
Without, at least, ae honest man. 
To grace this d — d infernal clan." 
By Adamhill a glance he threw, 
" L — d G — d !" quoth he, "I have it now. 
There's just the man I want, i' faith !" 
And quickly stoppit Eankine's breath. 



188 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



ON SENSIBILITY. 



HI DKAB .tND MITCH UONCtTRES FRIEND, MRS. SUNLOPj 
OF EtritLOP. 

[Tii.SBO verses were occasioned, it is said, by some 
jentanents contained in a communication from Mrs. Dun- 
vop. That excellent Jady was sorely tried with domestic 
«fflictions for a time, and to tliese he appears to allude ; 
but he deo.dened the effect of his sympathy, when he 
printed the stanzas in the Museum, changing the fourth 
.ine to 

"Dearest Nancy, thou canst tell !" 
ana so transferring the whole to another heroine.] 

Sensibility how charming, 

Thou, my friend, canst truly tell : 

But distress with horrors arming. 
Thou hast also known too well. 

Fairest flower, behold the lily, 

Blooming in the sunny ray : 
Let the blast sweep o'er the valley, 

See it prostrate on the clay. 

Hear the wood-lark charm the forest, 

Telling o'er his little joys : 
Hapless bird ! a prey the surest, 

To each pirate of the skies. 

Dearly bought, the hidden treasure, 

Finer feeling can bestow ; 
Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure, 

Thrill the deepest notes of woe. 



CXLIII. 

LINES, 



SENT TO A GENTLEMAN WHOM HE HAD 
OFFENDED. 

[The too h'jspitable board of Mrs. Riddel occasioned 
tiies« repentant strains: they were accepted as they 
W9TQ iaeant ny the party. The poet had, it seems, not 
ojsiy gpols« 7' mere titles and rank with disrespect, but 
had all-jwea liis tongue unbridled license of speech, on 
the cla.oi of political importance, and domestic equality, 
which Mary Wolstonecroft and her followers patron- 
Bed, at whicL Mrs. Riddel affected to be grievously of- 
fended. j 

The friend whom wild from wisdom's way, 
The fumes of wine infuriate send ; 

'Not ttoony madness more astray;) 
Who bu' deplores that hapless friend ? 



Mine was th' insensate frenzied part, 
Ah, why should I such scenes outlive 

Scenes so abhorrent to my heart ! 
'Tis thine to pity and forgive. 



CXLIV. 
ADDRESS, 

SPOKEN BY Miss FONTENELLE ON HKR BUJUlSSli 

NIGHT. 



[This address was spoken by Miss Fontenelle, at thf 
Dumfries theatre, on the 4th of December, 1795.] 

Still anxious to secure your partial favour. 
And not less anxious, sure, this night than evet, 
A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter, 
'Twould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better; 
So sought a Poet, roosted near the skies, 
Told him I came to feast my curious eyes ; 
Said nothing like his works was ever printed ; 
And last, my Prologue-business slyly hinted 1 
'* Ma'am, let me tell you," quoth my man of 

rhymes, 
"I know your bent — these are no laughing 

times : 
Can you — but. Miss, I own I have my fears. 
Dissolve in pause — and sentimental tears ; 
With laden sighs, and solemn-rounded sentence. 
Rouse from his sluggish slumbers, fell Repent- 
ance ; 
Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand. 
Waving on high the desolating brand. 
Calling the storms to bear him o'er a guilty 
land ?" 

I could no more — askance the creaiure eyeing, 
D'ye think, said I, this face was made for cry* 

ing? 
I'll laugh, that's poz — nay more, the world ahsSl 

know it ; 
And so your servant ! gloomy Master Poet I 
Firm as my creed, Sirs, 'tis my fix'd belief, 
That Misery's another word for Grief; 
I also think — so may I be a bride ! 
That so much laughter, so much life enjoy 'd. 

Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh, 
Still under bleak Misfortune's blasting eye ; 
Doom'd to that sorest task of man alive — 
To make three guineas do the work of five : 



OF ROBEKT BURNS. 



189 



Laugh in Misfortune's face — the beldam witch ! 
Bay, vou'll be merry, tho' you can't be rich. 

Tliou other man of care, the wret:!h in love, 
Who long with jiltish art* and airs hast strove ; 
Who, as the boughs all temptingly project, 
Measur'st in desperate thought — a rope — thy 

neck — 
Or, where the beetling cliff o'erhangs the deep, 
Fewest to meditate the healing leap : 
Would'st thou be cur'd, thou silly, moping elf? 
Laugh at their follies — laugh e'en at thyself: 
Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific, 
And love a kinder — that's your grand specific. 

To sum up all, be merry, I advise ; 

And as we're merry, may we still be wise. 



SEEING MISS FONTENELLE 

IN A FAVOURITE CHARACTER. 

(The good looks and the natural acting of Miss Fon- 
i«i2eile pleased others as well as Burns. I know not to 
Wrhat cliaracter in the range of her personations he 
Uludas : she was a favourite on the Dumfries boards.] 

SwKET naivete of feature, 

Simple, wild, enchanting elf, 
Not to thee, but thanks to nature, 
■ Thou art acting but thyself. 

Wert thou awkward, stiff, affected, 
Spurning nature, torturing art ; 

Loves and graces all rejected. 
Then indeed thou'dst act a part. 

R. B. 



TO CHLORIS, 



[Chlons was a Nithsdale beauty. Love and sorrow 
were strongly mingled in her early history : that she did 
not look so lovely in other eyes as she did in those of 
Burns is well known : but he had much of the taste of 
im artist, and admired the elegance of her form, and the 
barmcmy of her motion, as much as he did her blooming 
face and sweet voice.] 

'Txs Friendship's pledge, my young, fair friend, 
Not thou the gift refuse, 



Nor with unwilling ear attend 
The moralizing muse. 

Since thou in all thy "outh and charms, 

Must bid the world adieu, 
(A world 'gainst peace in constant arms) 

To join the friendly few. 

Since, thy gay morn of life o'ercast, 
Chill came the tempest's lower ; 

(And ne'er misfortune's eastern blast 
Did nip a fairer flower.) 

Since life's gay scenes must charm no mora 

Still much is left behind ; ~ 
Still nobler wealth hast thou in store— 

The comforts of the mind ! 

Thine is the self-approving glow, 

On conscious honour's part ; 
And, dearest gift of heaven below, 

Thine friendship's truest heart 

The joys refin'd of sense and taste, 

With every muse to rove : 
And doubly were the poet blest. 

These joys could he improve. 



POETICAL INSCmPTIOJH 

FOR AN ALTAB TO INDKPENPENCIC. 

[It was the fashion of the fsverish tirries o' the French 
Revolution to plant trees of Liberty, and ' iise altars to 
Independence. Heron of Kerroughtre!*, a gentleman 
widely esteemed in Galloway, was about to engage lit 
an election contest, and these noble lines served the pur- 
pose of announcing the candidate's sentiments on fr»« 
dom.] 

Thou of an independent mind. 

With soul resolv'd, with soul resign'd; 

Prepar'd Power's proudest frown to brfcftj 

Who wilt not be, nor have a slave ; 

Virtue alone who dost revere. 

Thy own reproach alone dost fear. 

Approach this shrine, and worship her«. 



190 



THE POETICAL WOEKS 



THE HERON BALLADS. 

[ballad FIE8T.] 

rThi ! is the first of several party ballads which Burns 
«rrote '.o serve Patrick Heron, of Kerroughtree, in two 
♦.ectionE for the Stewartry of Kirkcudbright, in which 
?* '.vas opposed, fi.st, by Gordon of Balmaghie, and 
»cor ily , by the Hon. Montgomery Stewart. There is a 
^rsr-aal bitterness in these lampoons, which did not 
imngle vith the strains in which the poet recorded the 
toiitest batween Miller and Johnstone. They are printed 
liere as matters of poetry, and I feel sure that none will 
f.» displeased, and some will smile] * 



Whom will you send to London town, 

To Parliament and a' that ? 
Or wha in a' the country round 
The best deserves to fa' that ? 
For a' that, and a' that, 
Thro Galloway and a' that ; 
Where is the laird or belted knight 
That best deserves to fa' that ? 



Wha sees Kerroughtree's open yett 

And wha is't never saw that ? 

Wha ever wi' Kerroughtree meets 

And has a doubt of a' that ? 

For a' that, and a' that,.. 
Here's Heron yet for a' that, 
The independent patriot, 
The honest man, an' a' that. 

III. 
Tho' wit and worth in either sex, 
St. Mary's Isle can shaw that ; 
Wi' dukes and lords let Selkirk mix. 
And weel does Selkirk fa' that. 
For a' that, and a' that, 
Here's Heron yet for a' that! 
The independent commoner 
Shall be the man for a' that. 



But why should we to nobles jouk. 

And it's against the law that ; 
Far why, a lord may be a gouk, 
Wi' ribbon, star, a a' a' that. 
For a' that, an' a' that, 
Here's Heron yet for a' that I 
A lord may be a lousy loun, 
Wi' ribbon, sta^•, an' a' that. 



A beardless boy comes o'er the hilla, 

Wi' uncle's puree an' a' that ; 
But we'll hae ane frae 'mang oursels, 
A man we ken, an' a' that. 

For a' that, an' a' that, 
Here's Heron yet for a' that ! 
For we're not to be bought an' sal<l 
Like naigs, an' nowt, an' a' thit 



Then let us drink the Stewartry, 

Kerroughtree's laird, an' a' that, ^ 
Our representative to be. 

For weel he's worthy a' that. 
For a' that, an' a' that. 
Here's Heron yet for a' that. 
A House of Commons such as "lib, 
They would be blest that saw that 



THE HERON' BALLADS. 

[ballad second.] 

[I« thir ballad the poet gathers together, after the 
manner of " Fy ! let us a' to the bridal," all the leading 
electors of the Stewartrv, who befriended Heron, oi 
opposed him; and draws their port'-aits in the colours of 
dght or darkness, according to the complexion of theil 
politics. He is too severe in most instances, and in some 
he is venomous. On the Earl of Galloway's family, and 
on the Murrays of Broughton and Caillie, as well as on 
Bushby of Tinwaldowns, he pours his hottest satire. 
But words which are unjust, or undeserved, fa!! off their 
victims like rain-drops from a wild-duck's wing. The 
Murrays of Broughton and Caillie have long borne, from 
the vulgar, the stigma of treachery to the cause of Prince 
Charles Stewart : from such lufamj' the family is wholly 
free : the traitor, Murray, was of a race uow extinct . 
and while he was betraying the cause in which so much 
noble and gallant blood was shed, Murriy of Broughton 
and Caillie was performing the duties of an honourable 
and loyal man: he was, like his great-grandson now, 
representing his native district in parliament.] 

THE ELECTION. 



Ft, let us a' to Kirkcudbright, 
For there will be bickerin' there ; 

For Murray's' light horse are to muster, 
And 0, how the heroes will swear ! 



I Murray, of Broughton and Caillie. 



OF' ROBERT BURNS. 



IW 



An' there Trill be Murray commander, 
And Goidon' the battle to win; 

Like brothers they'll stand by each other, 
8ae knit in alliance an' kin. 



An' there -will be black-lippit Johnnie,^ 
The tongue o' the trump to them a' ; 

And he get na hell for his haddin' 

• The deil gets na justice ava' ; 

And there will Keiupleton's birkie, 
A boy no sae black at the bane. 

But, as for his fine nabob fortune, 
We'll e'en let the subject alane. 



A.n' there will be Wigton's new sheriff, 

Dame Justice fu' brawlie has sped. 
She's gotten the heart of a Bushby, 

But, Lord, what's become o' the head ? 
An' there will be Cardoness,^ Esquire, 

Sae mighty in Cardoness' eyes ; 
A wight that will weather damnation, 

For the devil the prey will despise 



An* tkere will be Douglasses* doughty, 

New christ'ning towns far and near ; 
Abjuring their democrat doings. 

By kissing the — o' a peer ; 
An' there will be Kenmure^ sae gen'rous. 

Whose honour is proof to the storm, 
To save them from stark reprobation, 

He lent them his name to the firm. 



But we winna mention Redcastle,^ 

The body, e'en let him escape ! 
He'd venture the gallows for siller. 

An' 'twere na the cost o' the rape. 
An' where is our king's lord lieutenant, 

Sae fam'd for his gratefu' return' 
The billie is gettin' his questions, 

1 eay in St. Stephen's the morn. 



An' there will be lads o' the gospel, 
Muirhead,'' wha's as gude as he's true ; 



Gordon of Balraaghie. 
» Bushb/, of Tinwald-downs. 
S JNIaxweil, of Cardoness. 
« The Douglasses, of Orchardtcwn and Castle DouglM. 

tJordon, afterwards Viseonnt Kennidre. 
» Laurie, of Redcast e. 

Mors^ead, Minister of Urr 



An' there will be Buittle's^ apostle, 

Wha's more o' the black than the blue ; 

An' there will be folk from St. Mary's.^ 
A house o' great merit and note. 

The deil ane but honours them highly,- — 
The deil ane will gie them his vote 1 



An' there will be wealthy young Richard, 

Dame fortune should hing by the neck; 
For prodigal, thriftless, bestowing. 

His merit had won him respect : 
An' there will be rich brother nabobs, 

Tho' nabobs, yet men of the first. 
An' there will be CoUieston's" whiskera, 

An' Quintin, o' lads not the worst 



An' there will be stamp-office Johnnie,' 

Tak' tent how ye purchase a dram ; 
An' there will be gay Cassencarrie, 

An' there will be gleg Colonel Tarn; . 
An' there will be trusty Kerr ough tree,'* 
• Whose honour was ever his law. 
If the virtues were pack'd in a parcel. 
His worth might be sample for a'. 



An' can we icrget the aiild major, 

Wha'U ne'er be forgot in the Greys, 
Our flatt'ry we'll keep for some other, 

Him only 'tis justice to praise. 
An' there will be m.aiden Kilkerran, 

And also Barskimming's gude knight. 
An' there will be roarin' Birtwhistle, 

Wha luckily roars in the right. 



An' there, frae the Niddisdale borders, 

Will mingle the Maxwells in droves ; 
Teugh Johnnie, staunch Geordie, an' Wailfe 

That griens for the fishes an' loaves; 
An' there will be Logan Mac Douall,'* 

Sculdudd'ry an' he will be there, 
An' also the wild Scot of Galloway, 

Sodgerin', gunpowder Blair. 



8 The Minister of Buittle. 

9 Earl of Selkirk's family. 

10 Oswald, of Auchuncruive. 

11 Copland, of Collieston and Blackv ; 

12 John Syme, of the Stamp-office. 

13 Heroil, of Kerroughtree. 

14 Colonel Macdouall, of JLiOgaa. 



I 



192 THE POETIOAL WORKS 


■ 


XI. 


Here's an honest conscience 


Then hey the chaste interest o' Broughton, 


Might a prince adorn ; 




An' hey for the blessings 'twill bring ? 


Frae the downs o' Tinwald — s 




It may send Balmaghie to the Commons, 


So was never worn. 




In Sodom 'twould make him a king ; 


Buy braw troggin, &o. 




An' hey for the sanctified M y, 

Our land who wi' chapels has stor'd ; 


Here's its stuff and lining, 
Cardoness'^ head : 




fle founder'd his horse among harlots, 
But gied the auld naig to the Lord. 


Fine for a sodger 
A' the wale o' lead. 

Buy braw troggin, &a 






Here's a little wadset 






Buittle' s^ scrap o' truth, 






Pawn'd in a gin-shop 




CL. 


Quenching holy drouth. 




THE HERON BALLADS. 


Buy braw troggin, &0. 




[ballad third.] 


Here's armorial bearings 
Frae the manse o' L^rr : * 




[This third and last ballad was written on the contest 






»etween Heron and Stewart, which followed close on 


The crest, an auld crab-ap^^^ 




chat with Gordon. Heron carried the election, but was 


Rotten at the core. 




anseated by the decision of a Committee of tlio House 


Buy braw troggin, && 




of Commons : a decision which it is said he took so much 


♦ 




to h«art that it affected his health, and shortened his 


Here is Satan's picture. 




Jfe] 


Like a bizzard gled, 




AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG. 


Pouncing poor Redcastle,' 




Tune. — "Buy broom besoms." 


Sprawlin' as a taed. 

Buy braw troggin, &o. 




Wha will buy my troggin, 






Fine election ware ; 


Here's the worth and wis lonj 




Broken trade o' Broughton, 


CoUiestonS can boast; 




A' in high repair. 


By a thievish midge 




Buy braw troggin, 


They had been nearly lost. 




Frae the banks o' Dee ; 


Buj braw troggin, &o. 




Wha wants troggin 






Let him come to rae. 


Here is Murray's fragments 
0' the ten commands ; 




There's a noble Earl's^ 


(Sifted by black Jock^ 




Fame and high renown 


To get them aflf his hands. 




For an auld sang — 


Buy braw troggin, &o. 




It's thought the gudes were stown. ' 


Saw ye e'er sic troggin ? 




Buy braw troggin, &c. 


If to buy ye're slack, 
Hornie's turnin' chapman. 




Here's the worth o' Broughton^ 


He'll buy a' the pack. 




In a needle's ee ; 


Buy braw troggin, 


* 


Here's a reputation 


Frae the ^^auks o' Dee; 




Tint by Balmaghie. 


Wha wants troggin 




Buy braw troggin, &c. 


Let him come to me. 




1 The Earl of Galloway. 


6Morehead,ofUrr. 


» Murray, of Broughton and Caillie. 


7 Laurie, of Redcastle. 




S Bushby, of Tinwald-downs. 


8 Copland, of Collieston and Blackwood 




4 Maxwell, of CardonesB. 


» John Bushby, of Tinwald-downn. 




TJie Minister of Buittle. 







OF ROBEKT BURNS. 



1U3 



CLI. 
POEM, 

ABDBE SSKD TO 

MK. MITCHELL, COLLECTOR OF EXCISE. 

DUMFKIES, 1796. 

[The gentleman to whom this very modest, and, under 
iho circumstances, most affecting application for his 
ialary was m.ado, filled the office of Collector of Excise 
koi the district, and was of a kind and generous nature : 
Jut few were aware that the poet was suffering- both 
'■'om ill-health and poverty.] 

Friend of the Poet, tried and leal, 
Wha, wanting thee, might beg or steal ; 
Alake, alake, the meikle deil 

Wi' a' his witches 
Are at it, skelpin' jig and reel, 

Iii my poor pouches ! 

I modestly fu' fain wad hint it, 
That one pound one, I sairly want it, 
If wi' the hizzie down ye sent it, 

It would be kind ; 
And while my heart wi' life-blood dunted 

I'd bear't in mind. 

So may the auld year gang out moaning 
To see the new come laden, groaning, 
Wi' double plenty o'er the loanin 

To thee and thine ; 
Domestic peace and comforts crowning 

The hale design. 



POSTSCRIPT. 

Te've heard this while how I've been licket, 
And by fell death was nearly nicket ; 
Grim loon ! he got me by the fecket, 

And sair me sheuk ; 
But by guid luck I lap a wicket. 

And turn'd a neuk. 

But by that health, I've got a share o't, 
And by that life, I'm promised mair o't, 
My hale and weel I'll tak a care o't, 

A tentier way: 
Then fariwell folly, hide and hair o't, 

For ance and aye ! 



MISS JESSY LEWARS, 

DU MFBIE S. 
WITH JOHNSON'S 'MUSICAL MUSEUM,' 

[Miss Jessy Lewars wafched over the declining dayi 
of the poet, with the affectionate reverence of a daugh- 
ter : for tliis slie has the silent gratitude of all who ad- 
mire the genius of Burns ; she has received more, tU« 
thanks ol tne poet himself, expressed in verses no' des- 
tined goon to die.1 

Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair. 
And with them take the Poet's prayer 
That fate may in her fairest page, 
With every kindliest, best presage 
Of future bliss, enrol thy name : 
With native worth and spotless fame. 
And wakeful caution still aware 
Of ill — but chief, man's felon snare ; 
All blameless joys on earth we find, 
And all the treasures of the mind — 
These be thy guardian and reward ; 
So prays thy faithful friend. The Bard 
June 26, 1796. 



CLIII. 

POEM ON LIEE, 

ADDRESSED TO 

COLONEL DE PEYSTER. 

DUMFRIES, 1796. 

[This is supposed to be the last Poem written Ijy tfu 
hand, or conceived by the muse of Burns. The persoj 
to whom it is addressed was Colonel of the gentlenieu 
Volunteers of Dum^iies, in whose riinks Bunis was ;i 
private: he was a Canadian by birth, an(i prided i.iiii- 
self on having defended Detroit, against the -nited effdrts 
of tlie French arid Americans. He was roirjjh nud aus- 
tere, and thought the science of war the noblestof all so 
ences : he affected a taste for literature, and wrote ver<«8 

Mt honoured colonel, deep I feel 
Your interest in the Poet's weal ; 
Ah ! now sma' heart hae I to speel 

The steep ParnaasuSj 
Surrounded thus by bolus, pill. 

And potion glasses 

what a canty warld were it. 

Would pain and care and sickness spare it 

And fortune favour worth and merit, 

As they 'deserve 1 
(And aye a rowth, roast beef and claret ; 

Syne, wha wad starve '^ 



194 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



Dame Life, tho' fiction out may trick her, 


Poor man, the flie, aft tizzes bye, 


And in paste gems and frippery deck her ; 


And aft as chance he comes thee nigh, 


Oh ! flickering, feeble, and unsicker 


Thy a'uld damn'd elbow yeuks wi' joy, 


I've found her still, 


And hellish pleasure ; 


.iy wavering like the willow-wicker. 


Already in thy fancy's eye, 


'Tween good and ill. 


Thy sicker treasure ' 


Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan, 


Soon heels-o'er gowdie ! in he gangs, 


Witches, like baudrons by a rattan,. 


And like a sheep head on a tangs. 


OvT sinfu' saul to get a claut on 


Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs 


W i' felon ire ; 


And murd'ring wrest.e 


Syne, whip ! his tail ye'U ne'er cast saut on — 


As, dangling in the wind, he hangs 


He's aff like fire. 


A gibbet's tassel. 


Ah Nick ! ah Nick ! it is na fair. 


But lest you think I am unc'vil, 


First shewing us the tempting ware. 


To plague you with this drauntmg drivel, 


Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare. 


Abjuring a' intentions evil. 


To put us daft ; 


I quat my pen : 


Syne, weave, unseen, thy spider snare 


The Lord preserve us frae the dovil. 


0' hell's damn'd waft. 


Amen ! amen ! 



EPITAPHS, EPIGRAMS, FEAGMENTS, 

ETC., ETC. 



ON THE AUTHOR'S FATHER. 

[William Burness merited his son's eulogiums: he 
^a8 an example of piety, patience, and fortitude.] 

YE whose cheek the tear of pity stains. 

Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend ! 
Here lie the loving husband's dear remains. 

The tender father and the gen'rous friend. 
The pitying heart that felt for huraaii woe; 

The dauntless heart that feared no human 
The friend of man, to vice alone a foe ; [pride ; 

" For ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's side." 



IT. 

ON R. A., ESQ. 

[Rojert Aiken, Esq , to wh^m " The Cotter's Saturday 
ligbt" is addrfissfld : a kind and generous man.] 

Know thou, stranger to the fame 
Of this much lov'd, much honour'd name! 
(For none that knew him need be told) 
A waiTnc" he-^rt death jlq'&t made ooAOl. 



m. 

ON A FRIEND. 

[The name of this friend is neither irentioned no 
alluded to in any of the poet's productions.] 

An honest man here lies at rest 
As e'er Qod with his image blest ! 
The friend of man, the friend of truth ; 
The friend of age, and guide of youth ; 
Few hearts like his, with virtue warm'd, 
Few heads with knowledge so inform'd : 
If there's another world, he lives in Misa ; 
If there is none, he made the best of thia. 



FOR GAVIN HAMILTON. 
[These lines allude to the persecutrnn which Hamiltoi 
padured for presuming to ride on Sunday, and say 
"damn it," in the presence of the mjaister of Mauchlin*. 

^HE poor man weeps — here Gavin sltieps, 
Whom canting wretches blam'd: 

But with such as he, where'er be be. 
May I be sav'd or damn'd t 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 19* 


V. 


vin. 


ON WEE JOHNNY. 


ON A CELEBRATED RULING ELDER, 


HICJACET WEE JOHNNT. 


[Souter Hood obtained the distinction of this Epigran 


[Wee Johnny was John Wilson, printer of tfee Kilmar- 
»v<ck edition of Burns's Poems : he doubted the success of 


by his impertinent inquiries into what he cailed tba 
moral delinquencies of Burns.] 


(h» speculation, and the poet punished him in these lines, 


Herb souter Hood in death does sleep ;— 


*hlcl he printed unaware of their meaning.] 


To h— 11, if he's gane thither, 


Whoe'er thou art, rsader, know, 


Satan, gie him thy gear to keep. 


That death has murder'd Johnny ! 


He'll baud it weel thegither. 


in' here his body lies fu' low — 




for saul he ne'er had ony. 







IX. 


VI. 


ON A NOISY POLEMIC. 


ON JOHN DOVE, 

INNKEEPER, MATTGHLINE. 


[This noisy polemic was a mason of the name of Jamfll 
Humphrey : he astonished Cromek by an eloquent dia 
sertation on free grace, effectual-calling, and predestina 


[John Dove kept the Whitefoord Arms in Mauchline : 


tion.] 


lis religion is made to consist of a comparative appre- 
'•otion of the liquors he kept.] 


Below thir stanes lie Jamie's banes : 
Death, it's my opinion. 


Here lies Johnny Pidgeon ; 


Thou ne'er took such a blethrin' b — ch 


What was his religion ? 


Into thy dark dominion ! 


Wha e'er desires to ken, 




To some other warl' 




Maun follow the carl, 






For here Johnny Pidgeon had nana ! 




Strong ale was ablution — 


X. 


Small beer, persecution, 
A dram was memento mori; 


ON MISS JEAN SCOTT. 


But. a full flowing bowl 


[The heroine of these complimentary lines lived i 


Was the saving his soul. 


Ayr, and cheered the poet with her sweet voice, as wai 


And port was celestial glory. 


as her sweet looks.] 




Oh ! had each Scot of ancient times, 




Been Jeany Scott, as thou art. 




The bravest heart on English ground 




Had yielded like a coward ! 


VII. 




ON A WAG IN MAUCHLINE. 




[This laborious and useful wag was the " Dear Smith. 




boa sleest pawkie thief," of one of the poet's finest 




pistles : he died in the West Indies.] 


XI. 


Lament him, Mauchline husbands a'. 
He aften did assist ye ; 


ON A HENPECKED COUNTRY SQUIRE. 


For had ye staid whole weeks awa, 


[Though satisfied vrith the severe satire of those iinsii 


Tour wives they ne'er had missed ye. 


the poet made a second attempt.] 


Te Mauchline bairns, as on ye press 


As father Adam first was fool'd. 


To school in bands thegither, 


4. case that's still too common, 


tread ye lightly on his grass, — 


Here lies a man a woman rul'd, 


Perhaps he was your father. 


The devil rul'd the woman. 



196 



THE POETICAL ^^ JRKS 



ON THE SAME. 

[The second attempt did not in Burns's fancy exhaust 

fhis fruitful subject : he tried his hand again.] 

O Death, hadst thou but spared his life, 

Whoin we this day lament, 
We freely wad exchang'd the wife, 

And a' been weel content ! 

Ep'n as he is, cauld in his grafF, 

The swap we yet will do't ; 
Take thou the carlin's caf case afiF, 

Thou'se get the soul to boot. 



ON THE SAME. 



[In these lines he bad© farewell to this sordid dame, 
who lived, it is said, in Netherplace, near Mauchline.] 

One Queen Artemisia, as old stories tell. 
When depriv'd of her husband she loved so well, 
In respect for the love and affection he'd show'd 

her, 
She reduc'd him to dust and she drank up the 

powder. 
But Queen Netherplace, of a diff'rent com- 
plexion, 
When call'd on to order the fun'ral direction, 
Would have eat her dear lord, on a slender pre- 
tence, 
Pfot to show her respect, but to save the ex- 
pense. 



XIV. 

THE HIGHLAND WELCOME. 

rBii^ -s took farewell of the hospitalities of the S^;l)t■■ 

t«h Highlands in these happy lines.] 

When Death's dark stream I ferry o'er, 

A time that surely shall come ; 
Tn Heaven itself I'll ask no more 

Than just a Highland welcome. 



ON WILLIAM SMELLIE. 

[Smellie, author of the Philosopliy of His'tory, a ilB 
gular person, of ready wit, and negligent in nothing Bar* 
his dress.] 

Shrewd Willie Smellie to Crochallan came. 
The old cock'd hat, the gray surtout, the samej 
His bristling beard just rising in its might, 
'Twas four long nights and days to shaving 
night : 

His uncomb'd grizzly locks wild starirg, thatch'3 
A head for thought profound and c.'ear, un- 

match'd : 
Yet tho' his caustic wit was biting, rude, 
His heart was warm, benevolent, and good. 



VERSES 

WRITTEN ON A WINDOW OF THE INN AT CARROW. 

[These lines were written on receiving what th^ peel 
considered an uncivil refusal to look at the works of thf 
celebrated Carron foundry.] 

We came na here* to view your warks 

In hopes to be mair wise. 
But only, lest we gang to hell, 

It may be nae surprise : 

For whan we tirl'd at your door, 
Your porter dought na hear us ; 

Sae may, shou'd we to hell's yetts come 
Your billy Satan sair us ! 



XVII. 

THE BOOK-WORMS 

[Burns wrote this reproof in a Shakspearc which uf 
found splendidly bound and gilt, but unreaci fUQ woint 
eaten, in a noble person's library.] 

Through and through the inspir'd leaves. 
Ye maggots, make your windings ; 

But oh ! respect his lordship's taste. 
And spar« his golden bindings. 



XVIII. 

LINES ON STIRLING. 

On visiting Stirling-, Burns was stung at beholding 
.tothing but desolation in the palaces of our princes and 
uur halls of legislation, and vented his indignation in 
these unloyal lines : some one has said that they were 
written by his companion, Nicol, but this wants eon- 
Ermation.] 

Here Stuarts once in glory reiga'd, 

And laws for Scotland's weal ordain'd ; 

But now unroof'd their palace stands, 

Their sceptre's sway'd by other hands ; 

The injured Stuart line is gone, 

A race outlandish fills their throne ; 

An idiot race, to honour lost ; 

Who know them best despise them most. 



THE REPROOF. 

[The imprudence of making the lines written at Stir- 
liBg public was hinted to Burns by a friend ; he said, " Oh, 
but I mean to reprove myself for it," which he did in 
these words.] 

Rash mortal, and slanderous Poet, thy name 
Shall no longer appear in the records of fame ; 
Dost not linow that old Mansfield, who writes 

like the Bible, 
Bays the more 'tis a truth. Sir, the more 'tis a 

libel ? 



XX, 
THE REPLY. 



[The minister of Gladsmuir wrote a censure on the 
Stirling lines, intimating, as a priest, that Burns's race 
Was aigh run, and as a prophet, that oblivion awaited 
big muse. The poet replied to the expostulation.] 

Li]\E Esop's lion. Burns says, sore I feel 
All others' scorn — but damn that ass's heel. 



LINES 

WBITTEN UNDEK THE PICTTTRE OF THE CELEBRATED 

MISS BURNS. 

[The Miss Burns of these lines was well known in 
tk :>se days to the bucks of the Scottish metropolis : tliere 
B BtiH a letter by the poet, claimmg from the magis- 



trates of Edinburgh a liberal interpiatntinr nf the laws 
social morality, in behalf of liis fuir nninesake] 

Cease, ye prudes, your envious vailiugs, 
Lovely Burns has charms — confess : 

True it is, she had one failing — 
Had a woman ever less ? 



XXII. 

EXTEMPORE IN THE COURT OF SESSl JN. 

[1 hese portraits are strongly coloured with the )d» 
tialilies of the poet: Dundas had offended his p de 
Erskine had pieased iiis vanity; and as he felt he spc ce 

LORD ADVOCATE. 

He clench'd his pamphlets in liis fist, 

He quoted and he hinted, 
'Till in a declai5iation-mist 

His argument he tint it : 
He gaped for't, he grap'd for't. 

He fand it was awa, man ; 
But what his common sense came short 

He eked out wi' law, mun. 

MR. ERSKINE. 

Collected Harry stood awee, 

Then open'd out his arm, man: 
His lordship sa.t wi' rueful e'e, 

And ey'd the gathering storm, man; 
Like wind-driv'n hail it did assail, 

Or torrents owre a linn, man ; 
The Bench sae'Wise lift up their eyes, 

Half-wauken'd wi' the din, man. 



XXIII. 

THE HENPECKED HUSBAND. 

[A lady" who expressed herself with incivility alca 
her husband's potations with Burns, vas rewarded Oj 
these sharp lines.] 

Curs'd be the man, the poorest wretch in JfOj 
The crouching vassal to the tyrant wife ! 
Who has no will but by her high permission , 
Who has not sixpence but in her possession; 
Who must to her his dear friend's secret tell ; 
Who dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell i 

! Were such the wife had fallen to my part, 
I'd break her spirit, or I'd break her heart 
I'd charm her with the magic of a switch, 

I I'd kiss her maids, and kick the per Terse b — h 



198 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



XXIV. 

WRITTEN AT INVERARY. 

[Negleeted at trie inn of Inverary, on account of the 
oresence of some northern chiefs, and overlooked by hie 
Brace of Argyll, the poet let loose his wrath and his 
rhyme : tr.idition speaks of a pursuit which took place 
ju the part of tlie Campbell, when he was told of his 
■ oiiBtnke, .md of a resolution not to be soothed on the 
pan of the bard.] 

Wuoo'er he be that sojourns here, 

I juty much his case, 
Unless he's come to wait upon 

The Lord their God,' his Grace. 



There's naething here but Highland pride 
And Highland cauld and hunger ; 

If Providence has sent me here, 
'Twas surely in his anger. 



ON ELPHINSTONS TRANSLATIONS 



MAETIALS EPIGRAMS. 

[Burns thuns relates the origin of this sally : — 
"Stopping at a merchant's shop in Edinburgh, a 
friend of mine one day put Elphinston's Translation of 
Martial into my hand, and desired my opinion of it. I 
iiked permission to write my opinion on a blank leaf of 
the book ; which being granted, I wrote this epigram.] 

THOU, whom poesy abhors. 
Whom prose has turned out of doors, 
Ileard'st thou that groan ? proceed no further ; 
'Twas laurell'd Martial roaring murther! 



INSCRIPTION, 

0\ THE HEADSTONE OF FERGUSSON. 

<8ome social friends, whose good feelings were better 
Jmui their taste, have ornamented with supplemental 
I ,n work the headstone which Burns erected, with this 
iA#criptior. to the memory of his brother bard, Fer- 
gusjoii ' 

Here lies 
Robert Fergusson, Poet 
Born, Septemlier 5, 1751 ; 
Died, Oct. 15, 1774. 

No sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay, 
" No storied urn nor animated bust ;" 

I'hfs simple stone directs pale Scotia's way 
'•"o pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust. 



XXVII. 

ON A SCHOOLMASTER. 

[The Willie Michie of this epigram was, it is Baia 
schoolmaster of the parish of Cleish, in Fjleshire: hi 
met Burns during his first visit to Edinburgh.) 

Here lie Willie Michie's banes ; 

0, Satan ! when ye tak' him, 
Gi' him the schoolin' o' your weans- 

For clever de'ils he'll mak' them. 



A GRACE BEFORE DINNER. 

[This was an extempore gracey pronounced by tha 
poet at a dinner-table, in Dumfries: he w^as ever read] 
to contribute tlie small change of rhyme, for either tb« 
use or amusement of a company.] 

Thou, who kindly dost provide 

For every creature's want ! 
We bless thee, God of Nature wide, 

For all thy goodness lent : 
And if it please thee. Heavenly Guide, 

May never worse be sent ; 
But, whether granted or denied, 

Lord bless us with content ! 

Amen. 



A GRACE BEFORE MEAT. 

[Pronounced, tradition says, at the table of Mi» Rid 
del, of Woodleigh-Park.] 

Thou in whom we live and move 

Who mad'st the sea and shore, 
Thy goodness constantly we prove, 

And grateful would adore. 
And if it please thee. Power above, 

Still grant us with such store, 
The friend we trust, the fair we love, 

And we desire no more. 



XXX. 

ON WAT. 



[The name of the object of this fierce epigram ciigm 
be found, but in gratifying curiosity, some pain wctii.d b« 
inflicted.] 

Sic a reptile was Wat, 
Sic a miscreant slave, 






OF ROBERT BURNS. 



19d 



That the very worms damD'd him 
When laid in his grave. 

"In his flesh there's a famine," 
A starv'd reptile cries ; 

" An' his heart is rank poison,'' 
Another replies. 



XXXI. 

ON CAPTAIN FRANCIS GROSE. 

[This was a festive sally: it is said that Grose, who 
was very fat t.iough he joined in the laugh, did not re- 
lish it.] 

The devil got notice that Grose was a-dying, 
So whip ! at the summons, old Satan came 

flying ; 
But when he approach'd where poor Francis lay 

moaning, 
And saw each bed-post with its burden a-groan- 

ing, 
Astonish'd ! confounded ! cry'd Satan, " By 

I'll want him, ere I take such a damnable load!" 



XXXIV. 

THE LEAGUE AND COVENANT. 

[In answer to a gentlen-.an, who cahed the bcIciqI 
League and Covenant ridiculous and fanatical.] 

The solemn League and Covenant 

Cost Scotland blood — cost Scotland tears , 

But it sealed freedom's sacred cause — 
If thou'rt a slave, indulge thy sneers. 



XXXV. 

WRITTEN ON A PANE OF GLASS, 

IN THE INN AT MOFFAT. 

[A friend asked the poet why God made Miss Daviei 
so little, and a lady who was with her, so large : befora 
the ladies, who had just passed the .window, were out 
of sight, the following answer waS recorded on a pane 
qt glass.] 

Ask why God made the gem so small. 
And why so huge the granite ? 

Because God meant mankind should set 
The higher value on it. 



IMPROMPTU, 
TO MISS AINSLIE. 

[These lines were occasioned by a sermon on sii 
*vhich the poet and Miss Ainslie of Berrywell 
istened, during his visit to the border.] 

Fair maid, you need not take the hint. 

Nor idle texts pursue : — 
*Twas guilty sinners that he meant. 

Not angels such as you ! 



XXXIII. 

THE KIRK OF LAMINGTON. 

[One rough, cold day. Burns listened to a sermon, so 
ittle to his liking, in the kirk of Lamington, in Clydes- 
Jalo, that he left this protest on the seat where he sat.] 

As cauld a wind as evei: blew, 
As caulder kirk, and in't but few ; 
As cauid a minister's e'er spak, 
Ye'se a' be het ere I come back. 



XXXVI. 

SPOKEN, 

ON BEING APPOINTED TO THE EXCISE. 

[Burns took no pleasure lA the name of gauger : \ 
situation was unworthy of him, and he seldom hesitated 
to say so.] 

Searching auld wives' barrels, 

Och — hon ! the day ! 
That clarty barm shoulit' tftain my laurels ; 

But — what'll ye say ! 
These movin' things ca'd wives and weans 
Wad move the very hearts o' 



XXXVII. 

LINES ON MRS. KEMBLE. 

[The poet wrote these lines in Mrs. Riddel's box in th« 
Dumfries Theatre, in the winter of 1794 : he was mjcii 
moved by Mrs. Kemble's noble and pathetic acting.] 

Kemble, thou cur'st my unbelief 

Of Moses and his rod ; 
At Yarico's sweet notes of grief 

The rock with tears had flow' a. 



200 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



XXXVIII. 

TO MR. SYME. 

[Jo«o Syme, of Rye(lale,a rhymer, a wit, and a gentle- 
man of education and intelligence, was, while Burns 
reside in D'lnnfries, his chief companion : he was bred 
to the .aw 

r]o more of your guests, be they titled or not, 
A ad cook'ry the first in the nation ; 

A'hu is proof to thy personal converse and wit, 
Is proof to all other temptation. 



TO MR. SYME. 

WITH A PRESENT OF A DOZEN OF PORTER. 

[The tavern where these lines were written was kept 
by a wandering mortal of the name of Smith ; who, 
having visited in some capacity or otlier the Holy Land, 
put on his sign, " John Smith, from Jerusalem." He 
was commonly known by the name of Jerusalem John.]' 

0, HAD the malt Hij strength of mind, 
Or hops the flavour of thy wit, 

'Twere drink for first of human kind, 
A gift that e'en for Syme were fit. 
Jerusalem Tavern, Dumfries. 



XL. 
A g"RACE. 



[This Grace was spoken at the table of Ryedale, where 
to the best cookery was added the richest wine, as well 
Hi the rarest wit : Hyslop was a distiller.] 

Lord, we thank and thee adore, 
For temp'ral gifts we little merit ; 

At present we will ask no more, 
Let William Hyslop give the spirit. 



XLI. 

INSCRIPTION ON A GOBLET, 

r Written on a dinner-goblet by the hand of Burns. 
Byrne, exasperated at having his set of crystal defaced, 
Uirsw the goblet under the grate : it was taken up by his 
nlerk, and it is still preserved as a curiosity.] 

There's death in the cup — sae beware ! 

Nay, more — there is danger in touching ; 
But wha can avoid the fell snare ? •.. 

The man and his wine's sae bewitching I 



XLII. 

THE INVITATION. 

[Burns had a happy knack in acknowledging civiJtl<M 
these lines were written with a pencil on the f/aper 14 
which Mrs. Hyslop, of Ijochruttop' p iclosed aninvitaQOI 
to dinner.] 

The King's most humble servant I, 
Can scarcely spare a minute ; 

But I am yours at dinner-time. 
Or else the devil's in it. 



THE CREED OF POVERTY 

t 

[When the commissioners of Excise told Burns that 
he was to act, and not to think ; he took out his pencil 
and wrote " The Creed of Poverty."] 

In politics if thou would'st mix, 

And mean thy fortunes be ; 
Bear this in mind — be deaf and blind ; 

Let great folks hear and see. 



XLIV. 

WRITTEN IN A LADY'S POCKET-BOOK. 

[That Burns loved liberty and sympathized with thost 
who were warring in its cause, these lines, and hiindred* 
more, sufficienfiy testify.^ 

Grant me, indulgent Heav'n, that I may live 
To see the miscreants feel the pains they give, 
Deal Freedom's sacred treasures free as air, 
Till slave and despot be but things ^hich were. 



XLV. 
THE PARSON' 



LOOKS. 



[Some sarcastic person said, in Burns's hearing, that 
there was falsehood in the Reverend Dr. Burnside-A 
ooks : the poet mused for a moment, and replied in linei 
whicf have less of truth than point.] 

That there is falsehood in his looks 

I must and will deny ; 
They say their master is a knave — 

And sure they do not lie. 



OF EGBERT BURNS. 



201 



THE TOAD-EATER. 

[This reproof was administered extempore to one of 
Ihe gue,5ts ;it the table of Maxwell, of Terraughty, whose 
ivhole talk was of Dukes w;th whom he had dined, and 
i{ e;«..le with whom he had 



^V'ha.t of earls -with whom you have supt, 
And of dukes that you dined with yestreen ? 

(Kjrd ! a louse, Sir, is 'still but a louse, 
Though it crawl on the curl of a queen. 



XLVII. 

OV ROBERT RIDDEL. 

[J copied these lines from a pane of glass in the Friars- 
Carse Henritage, on which they had been traced with 
the diamond of Burns.] 

To Riddel, much-lamented man, 

This ivied cot was dear ; 
Reader, dost value matchless worth ? 

This Wied cot revere. 



THE TOAST. 

Uurns being called on for a song, by his brother volun- 
leers, on a festive occasion, gave the following Toast.] 

Instead of a song, boys, I'll give you a toast — 
Here's the memory of those on the twelfth that 

we lost! — 
That we lost, did I say ? nay, by Heav'n, that 

we found ; 
Fci their fame it shall last while the world goes 

round. 
The Lfcxt in succession, I'll give you — the King 1 
W^hoe'er would betray him, on high may he 

swing ; 
.ind acre's the grand fabric, our free Constitu- 
tion, 
As built on the base of the great Revolution ; 
And longer with politics not to be era- iip'd, 
Be Anarchy curs'd, and be Ty anny damn'd; 
And who would to Liberty e" or prove disloyal, 
May his son be a hangman, and he his first 
jrial. 



ON A PERSON NICKNAMED 

THE MARQUIS. 

[-h a moment when vanity prevailed against prudence 
this person, who kept a respectable public-house in Dnm 
fries, desired Burns to write his epitaph.] 

Here lies a mock Marquis, whose titles were 

shamm'd ; 
K ever he rise, it will be to be damn'd. 



L. 

LINES 

WRITTEN ON A WINDOW. 

[Burns traced these words with a diamond, on the 
window of the King's Arms Tavern, Dumfries as a 
reply, or reproof, to one who had been witty on excise 
men.] 

Ye men of wit and wealth, why all this sneer 
ing 

'Gainst poor Excisemen ? give the cause a hear- 
ing; 

What are you, landlords' rent-rolls? teasing 
ledgers : 

What premiers — what ? even monarchs' mighty 
gangers : 

Nay, what are priests, those seeming godly wise 
men? 

What are they, pray, but spiritual Excisemen! 



LINES 

WRITTKN ON A WINDOW OF THE GLOBE TAVERN, 
DUMFRIES. 

[The Globe Tavern was Burns's favourite ' Hov f," 
as he called it. It had other attraction.i than goo"* 
liquor; there lived "Anna, with the golden locks.-'] 

The graybeard, old Wisdom, may boast of hil 
treasures, 
Give me with gay Folly to live ; 
I grant him his calm-blooded, time- settled pleac 
sures. 
But Folly, has raptures to give. 



202 THE POETICAL WORKS 


LII. 


Lvr. 


THE SELKIRK GRACE. 


ON THE DEATH OF A LAP-DOG, 


[Oi a visit to St. Mary's Isle, Burns was requested jy 
tho noble owner to say grace to dinner; he obeyed in 
these lines, now known in Galloway by the name of" The 
Bs'.kirk Grace."] 

Some hae meat and canna eat, 


NAMED ECHO 

[When visiting with Syme at Kenmce Cbst.e 3unn 
wrote this Epitaph, rather reluctantly, it is said, at th< 
request of the lady of the house, in honour of her lap 
dog.] 


And some wad eat that want it ; 
But we hae meat and we can eat, 
And sae +he Lord be thanket. 


In wood and wild, ye warbling throng, 

Your heavy loss deplore ; 
Now half extinct your powers of song, 

Sweet Echo is no more. 

Ye jarring, screeching things around, 
Scream your discordant joys ; 

Now half your din of tuneless sound 
With Echo silent lies. 


LIII. 
TO DR. MAXWELL, 


ON JESSIE STAIG'S RECOVERY. 




[Maxwell was a skilful physician ; and Jessie Staig, the 
Provost's eldest daughter, was a young lady of great 
Beauty : she died early.] 






Maxwell, if merit here you crave 


LVIl. 


That merit I deny, 
You save fair Jessie from the grave — 


ON A NOTED COXCOMB 


An angel could not die. 


[Neither Ayr, Edinburgh, nor Dumfries have contested 
the honour of producing the person on whom these line* 
were written :— coxcombs are the growth of all dia- 
tricts.] 




LIV. 
EPITAPH. 


Light lay the earth on Will/s breast 

His chicken-heart so tender ; 
But build a castle on his head, 


1 These lines were traced by the hand of Burns on a 
goblei belonging to Gabriel Richardson, brewer, in 
Dtmfries: it is carefully preserved in the family.] 

Here brewer Gabriel's fire's extinct, 


His skull will prop it under. 




And emptj all his barrels : 
He's blest — if, as he brew'd, he drink- 


LVIII. 


In upright virtuous morals. 


ON SEEING THE BEAUTIFUL SEAT OF 




LORD GALLOWAY. 

[This, and the three succeeding Epigrams, are haatj 
squibs thrown amid the tumult of a contested electioa 
and must not be taken as the fixed and deliberate senti- 
ments of the poet, regarding an ancient and noble house 1 


LV. 
EPITAPH 


ON WILLIAM NICOL. 


What dost thou in that mansion fair ? — 


lNIco. was a •eholar, of ready and rough wit, who 
-»ved a joke and a gill.] 

Ye maggots, feast on Nicol's brain. 


Flit, Galloway, and find 
Some narrow, dirty, dungeon cave, 
\ "le picture of thy mind I 


For few sic feasts ye've gotten ; 
And fix your claws in Nicol's heart, 
For deil a bit o't's rotten. 







OF ROBERT BURNS. 



203 



LIX. 
ON THE SAME. 

He Stewart art thou, Galloway, 
The Stewarts all were brave ; 

Besides, the Stewarts were but fools, 
Not one of them a knave. 



LX. 

ON THE SAME. 

Bright ran thy line, Galloway, 
Thro' many a far-fam d sire ! 

So ran the far-fam'd Roman way, 
So ended in a mire 



TO THE SAME, 

» XHB AUTHOR BEING THREATENED WITH HIS 
RESENTMENT. 

Spare me thy vengeance, Galloway, 

In quifet let me live : 
\ ask no kindness at thy hand. 

For thou hast none to grvo. 



LXII. 

ON A COUNTRY LAIRD. 

• r. Maxwell, of Cardoness, afterwards Sir David, 
«V eed himself to the rljyming wrath of Burns, by hia 
««»■* Aty in the contested elections of Heron.] 

Bless Jesus Christ, Cardoness, 

With grateful lifted eyes. 
Who said that not the soul alone 

But body too, must rise : 
For had he said, "the soul alone 

From death I will deliver;" 
Alas ! alas ! Cardoness, 

Then thou hadst slept for ever. 



LXIII. 
ON JOHN BUSHBY. 



fSurns. in his harshest lampoons, always admitted l.\« 
4Utnt8 of Bushby : the peasantry , who hate all clev«i 



attorneys, loved to handle his character with unsparioi 
severity.] 

Hebe lies John Bushby, honest man! 
Cheat him. Devil, gin ye can. 



THE TRUE LOYAL NATIVES 

[At a dinner-party, where politics rat high, Un« 
signed by men who called themselves the true loya 
natives of Dumfries, were handed to Burns : he took s 
pencil, and at once wrote this reply.] 

Ye true " Loyal Natives," attend to my song, 
In uproar and riot rejoice the night long ; 
From envy or hatred your corps is exempt. 
But where is your shield from the darts of ooi 
tempt ? 



ON A SUICIDE. 



[Burns was observed by my friend, Dr. Copland Hu 
cnison, to fix, one morning, a bit of paper on the gfrav* 
of a person who had committed suicide : on the papei 
these lines were pencilled.] 

Earth'd up here lies an imp o' hell, 

Planted by Satan's dibble — 
Poor silly wretch, he's damn'd himsei 

To save the Lord the trouble. 



EXTEMPORE 

PINNED ON A lady's COACH. 

["Printed," says Sir Harris Nicolas, "frcm x eopy 
in Burns's handwriting," a slight alteration in the last 
line is made from an oral version.] 

If you rattle along like your mistress's tongue, 
Your apeed will outrival the dart : 

But, a fly for your load, you'll break down W 
the road 
If your stuff has the rot. like her heart. 



204 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



LINES 
TO JOHN RANKIN E. 

[These lines were said to have been written by the 
poet to Rankine, of Adamhill, with orders to forward 
ttifim when he died.] 

Hk who of Rankine sang lies stiff and dead, 
And a green grassy hillock hides his head;. 
Alas I alas! a devilish change indeed. 



LXVIII. 
JESSY LEWARS. 

[Written on the blank side of a list of wild beasts, exhi- 
biting in Dumfries. " Now," said the poet, who was 
Ihen very ill, " it is fit to be presented to a lady."] 

Talk not to me of savages 

From Afric's burning sun, 
No savage e'er could rend my heart 

As, Jessjj, thou hast done. 
But Jessy's lovely hand in mine, 

A mutual faith to plight, 
Not even to vievr the heavenly choir 

Would be so blest a sight. 



LXIX. 

THE TOAST. 

[One day, when Burns was ill and seemed in slumber, 
lie observed Jessy Lewars moving about the house with 
II Jight step lest she should disturb him. He took a 
crystal goblet containing wine-and-water for moistening 
bis lips, wrote these words upon it with a diamond, and 
presented it to her. 

Fill me with the rosy wine, 
Call a toast — a toast divine ; 
Give the Poet's darling flame, 
Lovely Jessy be the name ; 
Then thou mayest freely boast. 
Thou hast given a peerless toast. 



ON MISS JESSY LEWARS. 

[The constancy of her attendance on the poet's sick- 
ked and anxiety of mind ba-ought a slight illness upon 
lw«v Lewars. " You must not die yet," said the poet: 



"give me that goblet, and I shall prepare you fo» \k- 
worst." He traced these lines with his diamond, tm 
said, " That will be a companion to ' The Toast.' ' 

Sat, sages, wh.it's the charm on eartib 
Can turn Death's dart uside ? 

It is not purity and worth. 
Else Jessy had not died. 

R. B. 



ON THE 

RECOVERY OF JESSY LEWARS 

[A little repose brouglit health to the young lady 
"-I knew you would not die," observed the poet, witli a 
smile : " there is a poetic reason- for your recovery :" ht 
wrote, and with a feeble hand, the following lines.] 

But rarely seen since Nature's birth, 

The natives of the sky ; 
Yet still one seraph's left on earth. 

For Jessy did not die. 

R. B. 



TAM, THE CHAPMAN. 

[Tam, the chapman, is said by the late William Cob- 
bett, who knew him, to have been a Thomas Kennedy, a 
native of Ayrshire, agent to a mercan.tile house in the 
west of Scotland. Sir Harris Nicolas confounds him 
with the Kennedy to whom Burns addressed several lei- 
ters and verses, which I printed in my edition of the poet 
in 1834 : it is perhaps enough to say that the name of thi 
one was Thomas and the name of the other John.] 

As Tam the Chapman on a day, 

Wi' Death forgather'd by the way, 

Weel pleas'd he greets a wight so famous. 

And Death was nae less pleas'd wi' Thomas, 

Wha cheerfully lays down the pack. 

And there blaws up a hearty crack ; 

His social, friendly, honest heart, 

Sae tickled Death they could na part : 

Sae after viewing knives and garters, 

Death takes him hame to gie him quartera 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 203 


LXXIII. 


It's no I like to sit an' swallow, 




Then like a swine to puke and wallow, 


(These lines seam to owe their origin to the precept of 
. Hirkle. 


But gie me just a true good fallow, 


" The present moment is our ain, 


Wi' right ingine, 


The next we never saw."] 


And spunkie ance to make us mellow, 




And then we'll shine. 


Herb's a bottle and an honest friend! 




What wad you wish for mair, man? 


No-w if ye're ane o' warl's folk, 


Wha kens before his life ma.'>' end, 


Wha rate the wearer by the cloak. 


AVhat his share may be o' care, man ? 


An' sklent on poverty their joke 


Then catch the moments as they fly, 


Wi bitter sneer. 


And use them as ye ought, man ! 


Wi' you nae friendship I will troke. 


Believe me, happiness is shy. 


Nor cheap nor dear 


And comes not ay when sought, man. 






But if, as I'm informed weel, 




Ye ha.te as ill's the very deil 




The flinty heart that carina feel — 


LXXIV 


Come, Sir, here's tae yoii 


[The sentiment which these lines express, was one 


Hae, there's my haun, I wiss you weel, 


familiar to Burns, in the early, as well as concluding 


And gude be wi' you. 


days of his life.] 


Egbert Bukness 


Though fickle Fortune has deceived me. 


Mossffiel, 3 March, 1786 


She promis'd fair and perform'd but ill ; 




Of mistress, friends, and wealth bereav'd me, 
Yet I bear a heart shall support me still. — 






I'll act with prudence as far's I'm able, 


LXXVI. 


But if success I must never find, 




Then come misfortune, I bid thee welcome, 


TO JOHN KENNEDY. 


I'll meet thee with an undaunted mind. 


Fakewell, dear friend ! may guid luck hit yon, 




And 'mang her favourites admit you! 




If e'er Detraction shore to smit you, 




May nane believe him ! 


LXXV. 


And ony deil that thinks to get you. 


TO JOHN KENNEDY. 


Good Lord deceive nim I 
R. B. 


[The John Kennedy tjb whom these verses and the suc- 


Kilmarnock, August, 1786 


ceeding lines were addressed, lived, in 1796, at Dumfries- 




house, and his taste was so much esteemed by the poet. 




that he submitted his " Cotter's Saturday Night" and the 




"Mountain Daisy" to his judgment: he seems to have 
teen of a social disposition.] 






Now, Kennedy, if foot or horse 


Lxxvn. 


E'er bring you in by Maucliline Cross, 




L— d, man, there's lasses there wad force 


[Cromek found these characteristie lineg amrr^ U 


A hermit's fancy, 


poet's papers.] 


And down the gate in faith they're worse 


Theke's naethin like the hones^ nappy f 


And mair unchancy. 


Whaur'll ye e'er see men sae happy. 




Or women, sonsie, saft an' sappy. 


But as I'm sayin', please step to Dow's, 


'Tween morn an' Ji,iirj) 


A.nd taste sic gear as Johnnie brews. 


A-8 them wha like to taste the drappie 


Till some bit callan bring me news 


In glass or horn ? 


That ye are there. 




And if we dinna hae a bouze 


I've seen me daezt upon a time ; 


I'se ne'er drink mair 


I scarce could wink or see a styme : 



206 THE POETICAL WORKS 


Just ae hauf muchkin does me prime, 


• 


Ought less is little, 


LXXX. 


i hen bach: X rattle on the rhyme, 


IMPROMPTU 


As gleg's a whittle. 






[The tuTiMer on which these varies a-e inMrilied w 




the diamond of Burns, found ita way ir the haiifit of 8b 




'vValtdi 3oott, and is now aniong tlie ti SMur*i" of Abb ■*• 
ford.] 






You're welcome, Willie Stewart, 


Lxxvnr. 


' ou'ra welcome, Willie Stewart ; 




rheie's ne'er a flower that blooms in May. 


ON THE BLANK LEAP 


That s hair sae welcome's thou art. 


WORK BY HANNAH MORE. 


Jome bumpers high, express your joy, 


PRESENTED BY MRS. C . 


The bowl we maun renew it ; 




The tappit-hen, gae bring her ben. 


Tnor flattering work of friendship kind, 


■ To welcome Willie Stewart. 


Still may thy pages call tb mind 




The dear, the beauteous donor ; 




Though sweetly female every part. 


My foes be Strang, and friends be slack, 


Y%t such a head, and more the heart, 


Ilk action may he rue it, 


Does both the sexes honour. 


May woman on him turn her back. 


She showed her taste refined and just, 


That wrongs thee, Willie Stewart. 


When she selected thee. 




7et deviating, own I must, 
For so approving me ! 






But kind still, I'll mind still 




The giver in the gift ; 


LXXXI. 


I'll bless her, and wiss her 




A Friend above the Lift. 


PRAYER FOR ADAM ARMOUR. 


Mossffiel, April, 1786. 


[The origin of this prayer is curious. In 1785 the 




maid-servant of an innkeeper at Mauchline, having been 




caught in what old ballad-makers delicately call," tha 




deed of shame," Adam Armour, the brother of the poet's 




bonnie Jean, writh one or two more of his comrades, exe- 




cuted a rustic act of justice upon her, by parading ner 


LXXIX. 


perforce through the village, placed on a rough, un- 


pruned piece of wood : an unpleasant ceremony, vulgarly 




called " Riding the Stang." This was resrmted by 


TO THE MEN ANB BRETHREN 


Geordie and Nanse, the girl's master and mistress : law 


OF THE 


was resorted to, and as Adam had to hide till the matter 




was settled, he durst not venture home till late on the 


MASONIC LODGE AT TARBOLfON 


Saturday nights. In one of these home-comings he met 




Burns, who laughed when he heard tlie story, and »aid, 


Within your dear mansion may wayward con- 


" You have need of some one to pray for you." " Np 


tention. 


one can do that Better than yourself," was the reply, and 


Or withering envy ne'er enter : 


this humorous intercession was made on the instant, and, 
as it is said, " clean off loof." Fron» Adam Armour 1 


May secrecy round be the mystical bound. 


obtained the verses, and when he wrote ther» out, h( 


And brotherly love be the centre. 


told the story in which the prayer originated.] 


Eiinburgh, 23 August, 1787. 


Lord, pity me, for I am little. 




An elf of mischief and of mettle. 




That can like ony wabster's shuttle. 




Jink there or here, 




Though scarce as lang's a gude kale-ff/iittle, 




I'm uncf queer. 




HANDSOME NELL. 



OF ROBERT BURIES 



201 



Lord pity now our waefu' case, 

For Geordie's Jurr we're in disgrace, 

Because we stang'd her through the place, 

'Mang hundreds laughin' 
For which we daurna show our face 

Within the clachan. 

Ajii now we'rt dern'd in glens and hallows, 
And hunted as was William Wallace, 
Bj constables, those blackguard fellows. 

And bailies baith, 
I" Lord, preserve us frae the gallows ! 

That cursed death. 

Auld, grim, black-bearded Geordie's sel', 
shake him ewre the mouth o' hell, 
And 1( t him hing and roar and yell, 

Wi' hideous din, 
And if ho offers to rebel 

Just heave him in. 



When Death comes in wi' glimmering blink. 
And tips auld drunken Nanse the wink' 
Gaur Satan gie her a — e a clink 

Behint his yett, 
And fill her up wi' brimstone drink, 

Red reeking het I 

There's Jockie and the hav'rel Jenny, 
Some devil seize them in a hurry. 
And waft them in th' infernal wherry, 

Straught through the l&ilb. 
And gie their hides a noble curry, 
- Wi' oil of aik. 

As for the lass, lascivious body. 

She's had mischief enough already, 

Weel stang'd by market, mill, and smiddie. 

She's suffer'd sair ; 
But may she wintle in a widdie. 

If she wh-re mair. 



SONGS AND BALLADS. 



HANDSOME NELL. 

Tune. — " I am a man unmarried." 

^"This composition," says Burna in his " Common- 
p,ace Book," "was the first of my performances, and 
done at an early period in life, when my heart glowed 
with honest, warm simplicity ; unacquainted and uncor- 
nipted with the ways of a wicked world. The subject 
K it was a young girl who really deserved all the praises 
1 lavo bestowed on her."] 



C ONOE I Isv'd a bonnie lass. 

Ay, at^ I love her still ; 
And whilst that honour warms my breast, 

I'll lore my handsome Nell. 



As boanie lasses I hae seen, 
And mony full as braw ; 

But for a modest gracefu' mien 
The like I never saw. 

III. 

A bonnie lass, 1 will contess, 
Ts pleasant to the e'e. 



But without some better qualitie« 
She's no a lass for me. 



But Nelly's looks are blithe and sweet. 

And what is best of a'. 
Her reputation is complete. 

And fair without a flaw. 



She dresses ay sae clean and neat, 

Both decent and genteel : 
And then there's something in her gait 

Gars ony dress look weel. 



A gaudy dress and gentle lir 
May slightly touch the heart; 

But it's innocence and modesty 
That polishes the dart. 

VII. 

'Tis this in Nelly pleases me, 
'Tis this enchants my soul ; 

For absolutely in my breast 
She reigns without jontrol 



20a THE POETICAL WORKS 


II. 


IV. 


LUCKLESS FORTUNE. 


TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY, 


[These lines, as Burns informs us, were written to a 


Tnne—"Invercald's Reel." 


»une of hia own composing, consisting of tliree parts, 
Rud the words were the echo of the air.] 


[The Tibbie who " spak na, but gaed by like stoure," 
was, it is said, the daughter of a man who wae laird ot 


KAGiNQ fortune's withering blast 
Has laid my leaf full low, ! 


three acres of peatmoss, and thought it became hai (• 
put on airs m consequense.] 


raging fortune's withering blast 
Has laid my leaf full low, ! 


CHORUS. 

Tibbie, I hae seen the day, 


My stem was fair, my bud was green, 
My blossom sweet did blow, ; 


Ye wad na been sae shy ; 
For lack o' gear ye lightly me, 


The dew fell fresh, the sun rose mild. 


But, trowth, I care na by. 


And made my branches grow, 0. 




But lucl^Iess fortune's northern storms 
Laid a' my blossoms low, ; 

But luckless fortune's northern storms 
Laid a' ray hlnssoms low, 


1. 

Yestreen I met you on the moor. 
Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure ; 
Ye geek at me because I'm poor. 
But fient a hair care I 

II. 

I doubt na, lass, but ye may think, 






Because ye hae. the name o' clink, 


III. 


That ye can please me at a wink. 


I DREAM'D I LAY. 


Whene'er ye like to try. 


rThese melancholy verses wore written when the poet 
was some seventeen years old : his, early days were typi- 
eal of his latter.] 


III. 
But sorrow tak him that's sae mean, 
Altho' his pouch o' coin were clean. 




Wha follows ony saucy quean. 


I. 


That looks sae proud and high. 


I dream'd I lay where flowers were springing 




Gaily in the sunny beam ; 
Ust'ning to the wild birds singing, 

By H falling crystal stream : 
Straight the sky grew black and daring; 


IV. 

Altho' a lad were e'er sae smart, 
If that he want the yellow dirt, 
Ye'U cast your head anither airt, 


Thro' the woods the whirlwinds rave ; 


And answer him fu' dry. 


Trees with aged arms were warring, 


V. 

^But if he hae the name o' gear. 


O'er the swelling drumlie wave. 




Ye'll fasten to him like a brier. 


% "• 


Tho' hardly he, for sense or lear. 


Such was my life's deceitful morning, 


Be better than, the kye 


Such the pleasure I enjoy'd: 




But lang or noon, loud tempests storming, 

A' my flowery bliss destroy'd. 
Tho' fickle fortune has deceiv'd me, 


VI. 

But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice 

Your daddie's gear maks you sae n?co ( 


She promis'd fair, and perform'd but ill ; 


The deil a ane wad spier your price. 


Of raony a joy and hope bereav'd me, 


Were ye as poor as I. 


I bear a heart shall support me still. 


,V1I. 




There lives a lass in yonder park. 




I would nae gie her i:r\. her sark, 
For thee, wi' a' thy thousan' mark ; 






Ye need na look sae high. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 209 


V. 


To plough and sow, to reap and mow. 


My father bred me early, ; 


MY FATHER WAS A FARMER. 


For one, he said, to labour bred. 


Tune—" The Weaver and Ms Shuttle, 0." 


Was a match for fortune fairly, 0. 


l" The following song," says the poet, " is a wild 




/hapsody, miserably deficient in versification, but as the 


VI. 


wntiraents are the genuine feelings of my heart, for that 




"neon I have a particular pleasure in conning it over."] 


Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, 




Thro' life I'm doom'd to wander, 0, 


I. 


Till down my weary bones I lay. 


Mt father was a farmer 


In everlasting slumber, 0. 


Upon the Carrick border, 0, 


No view nor care, but shun whate'er 


And carefully he bred me, 


Might breed me pain or sorrow, : 


In decency and order, ; 


I live to-day as well's I may, 


He bade me act a manly part, 


Regardless of to-morrow, 0. 


Though I had ne'er a farthing, ; 




For without an honest manly heart. 




No man was worth regarding, 0. 


VII. 




But cheerful still, I am as well, 


II. 


As a monarch in a palace, 0, 


Then out into the world 


Tho' Fortune's frown still hunts me dow* 


My course I did determine, ; 


With all her wonted malice, : 


Tho' to be rich was not my wish, 


I make indeed my daily bread. 


Yet to be great was charming, : 


But ne'er can make it farther,- ; 


My talents they were not the worst. 


But, as daily bread is all I need. 


Nor yet my education, ; 


I do not much regard her, 


Resolv'd was I, at least to try, 




To mend my situation, 0. 






VIII. 


III. 


When sometimes by my labour 


iji many a way, and vain essay. 


I earn a little money, 0, 


I courted fortune's favour, ; 


Some unforeseen misfortune 


Some cause unseen still stept between, 


Comes gen'rally upon me, : 


To frustrate each endeavour, : 


Mischance, mistake, or by neglect. 


Sometimes by foes I was o'erpower'd, 


Or my goodnatur'd folly, ; 


Sometimes by friends forsaken, 0, 


But come what will, I've sworn it still, 


A.nd when my hope was at the top, 


I'll ne'er be melancholy, 0. 


I still was worst mistaken, 0. 


» IX. 

All you who follow wealth and power, 


IV. 

Then sore harass'd, and tir'd at last. 


With fortune's vain delusion, 0, 


With unremitting ardour, 0, 


I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams. 


The more in this you look for bliss. 


And came to this conclusion, : 


You leave your view the farther, 0> 


The past was bad, and the future hid; 


Had you the wealth Potosi boasts. 


Its good or ill untried, ; 


Or nations to adore you, 0, 


But the present hour, was in my pow'r 


A cheerful honest-hearted clown 


And so I would enjoy it, 0. 


I will prefer before you, 


V. 

N/ help, nor hope, nor view had I, 
Nor person to befriend me, ; 






Bo I must toil, and sweat and broil, 




And labour to sustain me. : 

14 


• 



210 THE POETICAL WORKS 


VI 


IX. 


JOH^ BARLEYCORK-: 


They filled up a darksome pit 
With water to the brim ; 


A BALLAD. 


They heaved in John BarleycQm, 


^Composed on the plan of an old song, of -which David 


There let him sink or swim. 


Laing has ^iven an authentic version in hi j very curious 




flume of Metrical Tales.] 


X. 


L 


They laid him out upon the floor, 


There were three kings into the east, 


To work him farther woe ; 


Three kings both great and high ; 


And still, as signs of life appear' 4, 


And they hae sworn a solemn oath 


They toss'd him to and ffo. 


Jolm Barleycorn should, die. 


XI. 


"• 


They wasted o'er a scorching flame 


They took a plough and plough'd him down, 


The marrow of his bones ; 


Put clods upon his head ; 


But a miller us'd him worst of all — 


And they ha'e sworn a solemn oath 


He crush' d him 'tween two stones. 


John Barleycorn was dead. 


XII. 


III. 


And they ha'e ta'en his very heart's blooi, 


But the cheerful spring came kindly on. 


And drank it round and round ; 


And show'rs began to fall ; 
John Barleycorn got up again. 


And still the more and more they diank. 


Their joy did more abound. 


And sore surpris'd them all. 


xm. 


IV. 


John Barleycorn was a hero bold. 


Of noble enterprise ; 


The sultry suns of summer came, 


For if you do but taste his blood, 


And he grew thick and strong ; 


'Twill make your courage rise. 


His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears 




That no one should him wrong. 


f 




'Twill make a man forget his woe; 


V. 


'Twill heighten all his joy: 


Tne sober autumn enter'd mild, 


'Twill make the widow's heart to sin^, 


When he grew wan and pale ; 


Tho' the tear were in her eye. 


His beading joints and drooping head 




Show'd he began 'to fail. 


XV. 




Then let us toast John Barleycorn, 


VI. 


Each man a glass in hand ; 


His colour sicAen'd more and more, 


And may his great posterity 


He faded into age ; 


Ne'er fail in old Scotland ! 


And then his enemies began 




^ . To show their deadly rage. 

Til. 

They've ta en a weapon, long and sharp, 




VII. 


And cut him by the knee ; 


THE RIGS 0' BARLEY 


Then ty'd him fast upon a cart, 


Tune — " Com rigs are. bonnie.''' 


Like a rogue for forgerie. 








VIII. 


Anne Blair, have each, by the district traditioiia, been 


They laid him down upon his back. 


claimed as the heroine of this early song.] 


And cudgell'd him full sore ; 


I. 


They hung him up before the storm 


It was upon a Lammas night, 


And turn'd him o'ei and j'er. 


When corn rigs are bonnie, 



OE ROBERT BURNS. 21t 


Beneath the moDn's unclouded light, 


eloquence of the poet, poured out in maoy an interview 


I held awa to Annie : 


and then quietly told him that she stood unaiterab. 


The time flew by wr tentless heed, 


engaged to another.] 


'Till 'tween the late and early, 


I. 


Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed, 


Altho' my bed were in yon muir. 


To see me through the barley. 


Amang the heather, in my plaidie. 




Yet happy, happy would I be, . 


II. 


Had I my dear Montgomery's Peggy. 


The sky was blue, the wind was still. 




The moon was shining clearly; 


II- 


I aet her down wi' right good ip-ill. 


When o'er the hill beat surly storms, 


Amang the rigs o' barley: 


And winter nights were dark and rainy ; 


I ken't her heart was a' my ain; 


J'd seek some dell, and in my arms 


^ I lov'd her most sincerely ; 


I'd shelter dear Montgomery's Peggy. 


I kiss'd her owre and owre again, 




Amang the rigs o' barley. 


III. 


« 


Were I a baron proud and high, 


III. 


And horse and servants waiting ready, 


I lock'd her in my fond embrace! 


Then a' 'twad gie o' joy to me, 


Her heart was beating rarely: 


The sharin't with Montgomery's Peggy 


My blessings on that happy place, 


♦ 


Amang the rigs o'' barley! 




But by the moon and stars so bright, 




That shone that hour so clearly ? 




She ay shall bless that happy night. 


IX. 


Amang the rigs o' barley ! 




THE MAUCHLINE LADY. 


IV. 


Tune — "I had a horse, I had nae mair." 


g I hae been blithe wi' comrades dear ; 
I hae been merry drinkin' ; 




[The Mauchline lady who won the poet's heart wa 




Jean Armour : she loved to relate how the bard made bet 


I hae been joyfu' gath'rin' gear; 


acquaintance : hisdog ran across some linen webs whicS 


I hae been happy thinkin' : 


she was bleaching among Mauchline gowans, ano he 


But a' the pleasures e'er I saw, 


apologized so handsomely that she took another look at 


Tho' three times doubled fairly. 


him. To this interview the world owes some of ou' 


That happy nigkt was worth them a' 


most impassioned strains .] 


Amang the rigs o' barley. 


When first I came to Stewart Kyle, 




My mind it was nae steady ; 


CHORUS. 


Where'er I gaed, where'er I rade. 


Corn rigs, an' barley rigs, 


A mistress still I had ay : 


An' corn rigs are bomiie : 


But when I came roun' by Mauchline town 


"11 ne'er forget that happy night, 


Not dreadin' any body. 


Amang the rigs wi' Annie. 


My heart was caught before I thoxi^ht, 




And by a Mauchline lady. 


VIII. 




MO^TGOMERY'S PEGGY. 


X. 


Tune—" Galla- Water." 


THE HIGHLAND LASSIE. 


f ' Mj- Montgomery's Peggy," says Burns, "was m7 


Tune—" The deuks dang o'er my daddy P 


ieit7 for six or eight months: she had been bred in a 




Ityle of life rather elegant: it cost mo 8om» heart-aches 


[" The Highland Lassie" was Mary Campbell, who»« 


« get > 'd of tlie affair." The young lady listened to the 


too early death the poet sung m strains that will end"'« 



212 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



while the language lasts. " She was," says Burns, " a 
warm-hearted, charming young creature as ever h essed 
* man with generous love."] 



Nae gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair, 
Shall ever be my muse's care : 
Their titles a' are empty show ; 
Gie me my Highland lassie, 0. 
Within the glen sae bushy, 0, 
Aboon the plains sae rushy, 0, 
I set me dovrn wi' right good-will, 
To sing my Highland lassie, 0. 



Oh, were yon hills and valleys mine, 
Yon palace and yon gardens fine, 
The world then the love should know 
I bear my Highland lassie, 0. 



But fickle fortune frowns on me. 
And I maun cross the raging sea ; 
But while my crimson currents flow, 
I'll love my Highland lassie, 0. 



Altho' thro' foreign climes I range, 
I know her heart will never change, 
For her bosom burns with honour's gloW; 
My faithful Highland lassie, 0. 



For her I'll dare the billows' roar, 
For her I'll trace a distant shore. 
That Indian wealth may lustre throw 
Around my Highland lassie, 0. 



She has my heart, she has my hand. 
By sacred truth and honour's band ! 
"Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low, 
I'm thine, my Highland lassie, 0. 

Farewell the glen sae bushy, ! 

Farewell the plain sae rushy, ! 

To other lands I now must go. 

To sing my Highland lassie, 0. 



PEGGY. 



[The heroine of this song is said to have been "MosH 
gomery's Peggy."] 



Tune- 



/ had a horse, I had nae ■ 



Now westlin winds and slaughtering guns 

Bring autumn's pleasant weather ; 
The moorcock springs, on whirring wings, 

Amang the blooming heather : 
Now waving grain, wide o'er tne plain. 

Delights the weary farmer ; 
And the moon shines bright, when I rove tk 
night 

To muse upon my charm^. 



The pai tridge loves the fruitful fella ; 

The plover loves the mountains ; 
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells ; 

The soaring hern the fountains ; 
Thro' lofty groves the cushat roves 

The path of man to shun it ; 
The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush, 

The spreading thorn the linnet. 

III. 
Thus ev'ry kind their pleasure find. 

The savage and the tender ; 
Some social join, and leagues combine; 

Some solitary wander : 
Avaunt, away ! the cruel sway. 

Tyrannic man's dominion ; 
The sportsman's joy, the murd'riug cry, 

The flutt'ring, gory pinion. 



But Peggy, dear, the ev'ning's clear. 

Thick flies the skimming swallow; ^ 
The sky is blue, the fields in view. 

All fading-green and yellow : 
Come, let us stray our gladsome way, 

And view the charms of nature ; 
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn. 

And every happy creature. 



We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk, 
Till the silent moon shine clearly ; 

I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest, 
Swear how I love thee dearly : 



OF ROBEKT BURNS. 213 


Not vernal show'rs to budding flow'rs, 


But a bonnie, westlin weaver lad 


Not autumn to the farmer, 


Has gart me change my sang. 


So dear can be as thou to me, 


To the weavers gin ye go, fair maids, 


My fair, my lovely charmer ! 


To the weavers gin ye go ; 




I rede you right gang ne'er at night, 




To the weavers gin ye go- 

II. 
My mither sent me to the town, 


XII. 


THE KANTIN' DOG, THE DADDIE O'T. 


To warp a plaiden wab , 




But the weary, weary warpin o't 


Tune — " East nook o' Fife." 


Has gart me sigh and sab. 


[The heroine of this humorous ditty was the mother 




»f " SonsiS; smirking, dear-bought Bess," a person whom 


III. 


;he poet v< jnrded, as he says, both for her form and her 


A bonnie westlin weaver lad. 


^.ya* e.J 


Sat working at his loom ; 


I. 


He took my heart as wi' a net, 


WHA my babie-clouts will buy ? 


In every knot and thrum. 


wha will tent me when I cry ? 


IV. 


Wha will kiss me where I lie ? — ' 




I sat beside my warpin-wheel, 


The rantin' dog, the daddie o't. 


And ay I ca'd it roun' ; 


II. 


But every shot and every knock, 


wha will own he did the fau't ? 


My heart it gae a stoun. 


wha will buy the groanin' maut ? 


V. 


wha will tell me how to ca't ? 


The moon was sinking in the west 


The rantin' dog, the daddie o't. 


Wi' visage pale and wan, 


III. 


As my bonnie westlin weaver lad 


Convoy'd me thro' the glen. 


When I mount the creepie chair. 


Wha will sit beside me there ? 


VI. 


Gie me Rob, I'll seek nae mair. 


But what was said, or what was dona. 


The rantin' dog, the daddie o't. 


Shame fa' me gin I tell ; 




But, oh ! I fear the kintra soon 


IV. 


Will ken as weel's mysel. 


Wha will crack to roe" my lane? 


To the weavers gin ye go, fair maids, 


Wha will make me fidgin' fain ? 


To the weavers gin ye go ; 


Wha will kiss me o'er again ? — 


I rede you right gang ne'er at night, 


The rantin' dog, the daddie o't. 


To the weavers gin ye gc. 




XIV. 


XIII. 


NANNIE. 


,MY HEART WAS ANCE, 


Tune. — ^^ My Nannie, 0." 


Tune — " To the weavers gin ye go" 


[Agnes Fleming, servant at Jalcothill, ;nspired ».. 


, 1 " "yb <) f hcrus of this song," says Burns, in his note to 


fine song: she died at an advanced ago, and was motii 


*fi Mufieum, " is old, the rest is mine." The " bonnie. 


remarkable for the beauty of her form than face. When 


vesdin weaver lad" is said to have been one of the 


questioned about the love of Burns, she smiled and teiJ. 


Tvals of the poet in the aftections of a west landlady.] 


" Aye, atweel he made a great wark about mo."] 


I. 
Mt heart was ance as blythe and free 


I. 

Behind yon hills, where Lugar flows, 


^8 simmer days veere Kng, 


'Mang moors an' mosses many, 



J14 THE POETICAL WORKS 


TJfee wintry sun the day has closed, 


I sat me down to ponder, 


And I'll awa to Nannie, 0. 


Upon an auld tree root : 




Auld Ayr ran by before me, 


II. 


And bicker'd to the seas ; 


Tlie westlin wind blaws loud an' shrill ; 


A cushat crooded o'er me. 


The night's baith mirk and rainy, ; 


That echoed thro' the braes. 


Hut I'll get my plaid, an' out I'll steal, 




An :wre the hills to Nannie, 0. 
III. 




XVI. 


My Nannie's charming, sweet, an' young ; 




Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, : 


BONNIE PEGxJY ALISON. 


May ill befa' the flattering tongue 


Tune — " Braes o' Balquihidder." 


That w.* J beguile my Nannie, 0. 






[On those whom Burns loved, he poured out soii# 




without limit. Peggy Alison is said, by a western tra 


IV. 


dition, to be Montgomery's Peggy, but this seems doub* 


Her<face is fair, her heart is true. 


ful.J 


As spotless as she's bonnie, : 






CHORUS. 


The op'ning gowan, wat wi' dew. 




Nae purer is than Nannie, 0. 


I'll kiss thee yet, yet. 




An' I'll kiss thee o'er again ; 


V. 


An' I'll kiss thee yet, yet. 


A country lad is my degree, 


My bonnie Peggy Alison ! 


An' few there be that ken me, ; 


• 


But what care I how few they be ? 


I. 


I'm welcome ay to Nannie, 0. 


Ilk care and fear, when thou art near, . 




I ever mair defy them, ; 


VI. 


Young kings upon their hansel throne 


My riches a's my penny -fee. 


Are no sae blest as I am, ! 


An' I maun guide it cannie, ; 




But warl's gear ne'er troubles me. 


II. 


My thoughts are a' my Nannie, 0. 


When in my arms, wi' a' thy charms, 




I clasp my countless treasure, 0, 


VII. 


I seek nae mair o' Heaven to share 


Our auld guidman delights to view 


Than sic a moment's pleasure, ! 


His sheep an' kye thrive bonnie, ; 


But I'm as blythe thai bauds his pleugh, 


III. 


An' has nae care but Nannie, 0. 






And by thy een, sae bonnie blue. 


VIII. 


I swear, I'm thine for ever, i — 


Come weel, come woe, I care na by. 


And on thy lips I seal my vow, 


I'll tak what Heav'n will sen' me, : 


And break it shall I never, ! 


Nae ither care in life have I, 


I'll kiss thee yet, yet. 


Bat live, an' love my Nannie, 0. 


An' I'll kiss thee o'er again ; 




An' I'll kiss thee yet, yet. 
My bonnie Peggy Alison ! 




XV. 

A FRAGMENT. 






Tune — ^^ John Anderson my jo." 


XVII. 


[This verse, written early, and probably intended for 


THERE'S NOUGHT BUT CAEB. 


he starting verse of a song, was found among the papers 


Tune — " Green grow the rashes." 


.-the poet.] 




One night as I did wander. 


["Man was made when nature was but an apprentice 
but woman is the last and most perfect work of ns 


When corn begins to shoot, 


ture," says an old writer, in a rare old book: a paesaf* 



OF ROBEKI BURNS. 



218 



K hich espiesses the sentiniPit of Burns; yet it is all but 


Her dear idea round my heart, 


fortain, that the Ploughman Bard was unacquainted with 


Should tenderly entwine. 


' Cupid's Whirlygig," where these words are to be 


ci'ud 


Though mountains rise, and deserts h<iw\ 




And oceans roar between ; 


CHORUS. 


Yet, dearer than my deathless soul. 


Green grow the rashes, ! 


I still would love my Jean 


Green grow the rashes, ! 




The sweetest hours that e'er I spend 




Vre spent amang the lasses, 0. 




I. 


XIX. 


There's nought but cxre on ev'ry han', 


R p I N. 


In every hour that passes, : 


What signifies the lif«» o' man, 


Tune — " Daintie Davie," 


An' 'twere na for the lasses, 0. 


[Stothard painted a clever little picture froir th 




characteristic ditty : the cannie wife, it was evident 


I r. 


saw in Robin's palm something which tickled her, an( 


The warly race may riches chase, 


a curious intelligence sparkled in the eyes of her gossips 


An' riches still ma 7 fly them, ; 


I. 


An' tho' at last they catch them fast, 


There was a lad was born in Kyle, 


Their h«arts cait ne'er enjoy them, 0. 


But whatna day 0' whatna style 




I doubt it's hardly worth the while 


III. 


To be sae nice wi' Robin. 


But gie me a canny hour at e'en, 


Robin was a rovin' boy. 


My arms abont my dearie, ; 


Rantin' rovin', rantin' rovin' ; 


An' warly cares, an' warly men, 


Robin was a rovin' boy, 


May a' gae tapsalteerie, 0. 


Rantin"^ rovin' Robin ! 


IV. 

For 70U sae douce, ye sneer at this, 


II. 

Our monarch's hindmost year bat ane 


Ye're nought but senseless asses, : 


Was five-and-twenty days begun, 


The wisest man the warl' e'er saw, 


'Twas then a blast 0' Janwar win' 


He dearly lov'd the lasses, 0. 


Blew hansel in on Robin 


V. 


III. 


Auld Nature swears the lovely dears 


The gossip keekit in his loof. 


Her noblest work she classes, : 


Quo' she, wha lives will see the proof, 


Her 'prentice han' she try'd on man, 


This waly boy will be nae coof. 


An' then she made the lasses, 0. 


I think we'll ca' him Robin 


Green grow the rashes, ! 




jrreen grow the rashes, ! 
The sweetest hours that e'er I spend 
Are spent amang the lasses, 0. 


IV. 


He'll hae misfortunes great and sma', 


But ay a heart aboon them a' ; 
He'll be a credit to us a', 




We'll a' be proud Robin. 


XVIII. 


V. 

But sure as three times three mak nine 


MY JEAN! 


I see by ilka score and line, 


lune — " The Northern Lass." 


This chap will dearly like our kin'. 




So leeze me on thee, Robin. 


tThe lady on whom this passionate verse was written 




►as Jean Armour. 


VI. 


Teotjgh cruel fate should bid us part. 


Guid faith, quo' she, I doubt you gar. 


Far as the pole and line, 


The bonnie lasses lie aspar. 



218 THE POETICAL \S OEKS " 


But twenty fauts ye may hae waur, 


That feeling heart but acts a part — 


So blessin's on thee, Robin 1 


'Tis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel. 


Robin was a rovin' boy, 




Rantin' rovin', rantin' rovin' ; 


IV. 




The frank address, the soft caress, 


Robin was a rovin' boy, 
Rantin' rovin' Robin ! 


Are worse than poison'd darts of steel; 




The frank address and politesse 




Are all finesse in Rob Mossgiel. 


XX 
• HER FLOWING LOCKS. 




Tune — (unknown. ) 


XXII. 


rOne day— It is tradition that speaks— Burns had his 


YOUNG PEGGY. 


oot in the stirrup to return from Ayr to Mauchline, when 


• Tune — "Last time I cam o'er the muir." 


» young lady of great beauty rode up to the inn, and or- 




Jered refreshments for her servants : he made these lines 


[In these verses Burns, it is said, bade fareweU to Ota/ 


Et the moment, to keep, he said, so much beauty in his 


on whom he had, according to his own account, wasta* 


Memory.] 


eight months of eourtship. We hear no more of Mont 




gomery's Peggy.] 


Hek flowing locks, the raven's wing, 




Adown her neck and bosom hing ; 


I- 


How sweet unto that breast to cling, 


YouNG Peggy blooms our bonniest lass. 


And round that neck entwine her ! 


Her blush ia like the morning. 


Her lips are roses wat wi' dew. 


The rosy dawn, the springing grass. 


0, what a feast her bonnie mou' I 


With early gems adorning : 


Her cheeks a mair celestial hue, 


Her eyes outshone the radiant beams 


A. crimson still diviner. 


That gild the passing shower. 




And glitter o'er the crystal streams. 




And cheer each fresh'ning flower. 


XXI. 


LEAVE NOVELS. 


Her lips, more than the cherries bright, 




A richer dye has graced them ; 
They charm th' admiring gazer's sight. 


Tune — " Mauchline belles." 


[Who these Mauchline belles were the bard in other 


And sweetly tempt to taste them : • 


rerse informs us : — 


Her smile is, as the evening mild. 


* Miss Miller is fine, Miss Markland's divine. 


When feather'd tribes are courting, 


_ Miss Smith, she has wit, and Miss Betty is braw; 
" There's beauty and fortune to get with Miss Morton, 


And little lambkins wanton wild. 


But Armour's the jewel for me o' them a'."] 


In playful bands disporting. 


I. 

LEAVE novels, ye Mauchline belles, 


III. 
Were fortune lovely Peggy's foe. 


Ye're safer at your spinning-wheel; 


Such sweetness would relent her, 


Such -switching books are baited hooks 


As blooming spring unbends the brow 


Foi rakish rooks, like Rob Mossgiel. 


Of surly, savage winter. 




Detraction's eye no aim can gain. 


II. 


Her winning powers to lessen ; 


Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons, 


And fretful envy grins in vain 


They make your youthful fancies reel ; 


The poison'd tooth to fasten. 


They heat your brains, and fire your veins, 




And then you're prey for Rob MossgieL 


IV. 




Ye powers of honour, love, and truth, 


III. 


From every ill defend her ; 


i^eware a tongue that's smoothly hung, 


Inspire the highly-favour'd jouth, 


4 heart that warmly seems tc feel ; 


The destinies intend her : 



OF ROBERT BURNS. til, 


Still fan the sweet connubial flame 


And faith I agree with th' old prig to a hair ; 


Responsive in each bosom, 


For a big-bellied bottle's a heav'n of care. 


And bless the dear parental name 




With many a fiUal blossom. 


VII. 




ADDED IN A MASON LODGE. 




Then fill up a bumper and make it o'erflow, 


XXIII 


The honours masonic prepare fcr to throw; 
May every true brother of the compass An4 


THE CURE FOR ALL CARE. 


square 


Vuiie--^' Prepare, -ny dear brethren, to the tavern 


Have a big-bellied bottle when harass'd with 


let's fly." 


care! 


[Turbolton Lodge, of which the poet was a membr-, 




was noted for its socialities. Masonic lyrics are all oi ' 




<avk and mystic order ; and those of Burns are scarce]. 




iin exception.] 




I. 


XXIV. 


No churchman am I for to rail and to write, 




No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight, 


ELIZA. 


No sly man of business, contriving to snare — 


Tune — " Gilderoy." 


For a big-bellied bottle's the whole of my care. 


[My late excellent friend, John Gait, informed me tna- 




the Eliza of this song was his relative, and that her uaml 


II. 


was Elizabeth Barbour.] 


The peer I don't envy, I give him his bow ; 




I scorn not the peasant, tho' ever so low ; 


I. 


But a club of good fellows, like those that are 


Feom thee, Eliza, I must go. 


here, 


And from my native shore ; 


And a bottle like this, are my glory and care. 


The cruel Fates between us throw 




A boundless ocean's roar : 


III. 


But boundless oceans roaring wide 


Here passes the squire on his brother — his horse ; 


Between my love and me. 


There centum per centum, the cit with his 


They never, never can divide 


purse ; ' 


My heart and soul from thee ! 


But see you The Crown, how it waves in the air 1 




There a big-bellied bottle still eases my care. 


II. 


IV. 


Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear, 


The wife of my bosom, alas ! she did die ; 


The maid that I adore ! 


For sweet consolation to church I did fly ; 


A boding voice is in mine ear. 


I found that old Solomon proved it fair. 


We part to meet no morel 


That a big-bellj«d bottle's a cure for all care. 


The latest throb that leaves my heart, 




While death stands victor by, 


V. 


That throb, Eliza, is thy part. 


I once was perp"taded a venture to make; 


And thine that latest sigh I 


h letter inforn''d me that all was to wreck; — 




But the pursy old landlord just waddled up 




stairs. 




W^ith a gloriou? 'oottle that ended my cares. 




VI. 


XXV. 


•Life'^ cares they are comforts,'" — a maxim 


THE SONS OF OLD KILLIL. 


laid down 




By the bard, what d'ye call him, that wore the 


Tune — " Shawnboy." 


blank (rown ; 


["This song, wrote by Mr. Burns, was sung by him 
in the Kilmarnock-Kilwinning Lodge, in 1786, and gives 




, 1 V oung's Nisfht Thoughta. 


by him to Mr. Parker, who was Master of the Lodfft^' 



218 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



Theee interesting words are on the orierinal, in the poet's 
handwriting , n the possession of Mr. Gabriel Neil, of 
Glasgow.] 



Ye sons of old Killie, assembled by Willie, 

To follow the noble vocation ; 
your thrifty old mother has scarce such another 

To sit in that honoured station. 
[ re little to say, but only to pray, 

As praying's the ton of your fashion; 
A prayer from the muse you well may excuse, 

'Tis seldom her favourite passion. 



Ye powers who preside o'er the wind and the 
tide, 

Who marked each element's border ; 
Whp formed this frame with beneficent aim, 

Whose sovereign statute is order ; 
Within this dear mansion, may wayward con- 
tention 

Or withered envy ne'er enter ; 
May jiecrecy round be the mystical bound, 

And brotherly love be the centre. 



M E N I E. 

Tune. — "Johnny^s grey breeks." 

lit the lady who inspired this song no one has given 
tay account : It first appeared in the second edition of the 
. (oet's works, and as the chorus was written by an Edin- 
burgh gentleman, it has been surmised that the song was 
X matter of friendship rather tlian of the heart.] 



Again rejoicing nature sees 

Her robe assume its vernal hues, 
Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, 
All freshly steep 'd in morning dews. 
And maun I still on Menie doat. 

And bear the scorn that's in her e'e ? 
For it's jet, jet black, an' it's like a hawk, 
An' it winna lei a body be. 



in vain to me the cowslips blaw, 
In vain to me the vi'lets spring ; 

In vain to me, in glen or shaw. 
The mavis and the lintwhite sing. 



The merry ploughboy cheers his team, 
Wi' jt/y ihe tentie seedsman stalks ; 

But life to me's a weary dream, 
A dream ui wnw that never wauka 



The wanton coot the water skims, 
Amang the reeds the ducklings cry. 

The stately swan majestic swims, 
And every thing is blest but I. 



The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap, 
And owre the moorland -whittles shrill 

Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step, 
I meet him on the dewy hill 



And when the lark, 'tween light and dark^ 
Blythe waukens by the daisy's side. 

Ana mounts and sings on flittering wings, 
A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide. 



Come, Winter, with thine angry howl, 

And raging bend the naked tree : 
Thy gloom will sooth my cheerless soul. 
When nature all is sad like me ! 
And maun I still on Menie doat. 

And bear the scorn that's in her e'e ? 
For it's jet, jet black, an' it's like a hawk, 
An' it winna let a body be. 



XXVII. 
THE FAREWELL 

TO THE 

BRETHREN OF ST. JAMES'S LODGR 

TABBOLTON. 

Tune — " Good-night, mid joy be wV you a'." 

[Burns, it is said, sung this soug in the St. iames • 
Lodge of Tarbolton, when his chest was on the way te 
Greenock : men are yet living who had* the honour ol 
hearing him — the concluding verse affected the ^rh±* 
.edge.] 

Adieu ! a heart-warm, fond adieu I 
Dear brothers of the mystic tiel 

Ye favour'd, ye enlighten'd few, 
Companions of my social joy I 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 219 


Tho' I to foreign lands must hie, 


II. 


Pursuing Fortune's slidd'ry ba', 


She's sweeter than the morning dawn 


With melting heart, and brimful eye, 


When riSiUg Phoebus first is seen. 


I'U mind you still, tho' far awa'. 


And dew-drops twinkle o'er the lawn ; 


II. 


An' she has twa sparkling roguish een 


Oft ha^e I met your social band, 


III. 


And spent the cheerful, festive night ; 


She's stately like yon youthful ash, 


Oft, honour'd with supreme command, 


That grows the cowslip braes between, 


Presided o'er the sons of light : 


And drinks the stream with vigour fresh ; 


And by that hieroglyphic bright, 


An' she has twa sparkling roguish een 


Which none but craftsmen ever saw I 




Strong mem'ry on my heart shall write 


IV. 


Those happy scenes when far awa'. 


She's spotless like the flow'ring thorn. 




With flow'rs so white and leaves so greea 


III. 


When purest in the dewy morn ; 


May freedom, harmony, and love 


An' she has twa sparkling roguish een 


Unite you in the grand design. 


V. 


Beneath th' Omniscient Eye above, 

The glorious Architect divine ! 
That you may keep th' unerringline, 


Her looks are like the vernal May, 


When evening Phoebus shines serene. 


Still rising by the plummet's law, 
Till order bright completely shine, 


While birds rejoice on every spray — 
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een 


Shall be my pray'r when far awa'. 


VI. 




Her hair is like the curling mist 


IV. 


That climbs the mountain-sides at e'en, 


•*iid you farewell ! whose merits claim. 


When flow'r-reviving rains are past ; 


Justly, that highest badge to wear ! 


An' she has twa sparkling roguish een. 


Heav'n bless your honour'd, noble name, 




To masonry and Scotia dear ! 


VII. 


A last request permit me here, 


Her forehead's like the show'ry bow. 


When yearly ye assemble a'. 


When gleaming sunbeams intervene. 


One round — I ask it with a tear, — 


And gild the distant mountain's brow ; 


To him, the Bard that's far awa', 


An' she has twa sparkling roguish een. 

VIII. 




Her cheeks are like yon crimson gem. 




The pride of all the flow'ry scene. 




Just opening on its thorny stem ; 


xxvni. 


An' she has twa sparkling roguish een- 



ON CESSNOCK BANKS. 

Tun«'--"7/'Ae be a butcher neat and trim." 

IT>1».'J are many variations of this song, which was 
irst printed by Cromek from the oral communication of 
% Glasgow lady, on whose charms the poet, in early life, 
composed it.l 



On Cessnock banks a lassie dwells i^ 
Could I describe her shape and mien ; 

Our lasses a' she far excels. 

An' she has twa sparkling roguish een. 



Her teeth are like the nightly snow 
When pale the morning rises keen, 

While hid the murmuring streamlets flow 
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een 



Her lips are like j m cherries' ripe. 

That sunny wall', from Boreas screen— 

They tempt the taste and charm the sighl 
An' she has twa sparkling roguisa een. 



220 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



Her teeth are like a flock of sheep. 
With fleeces newly washen clean, 

That slowly mount the rising steep ; 
An' she has twa glancin' roguish een. 



Eer breath is like the fragrant breeze 
That gently stirs the blossom'd bean, 

V^hen Phoebus sinks behind the seas ; 
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een. 



Her voice is like the ev'ning thrush 
That sings on Cessnock banks unseen, 

While his mate sits nestling in the bush ; 
An' she has twa sparkling roguish een. 

XIV. 

Ihit it's not her air, her form, her face, 
Tho' matching beauty's fabled queen, 

'Tis the mind that shines in ev'ry grace. 
An' chiefly in her roguish, een. 



XXIX. 
MART! 

Tune — ^'Blue Bonnets.^ 



[In Hie original raanuscript Burns calls this song "A 
fVayer for Mary |" his Highland Mary is supposed to be 
toe inspiier.l 



PowEKb celestial ! whose protection 

Ever guards the virtuous fair. 
While in distant climes I wander, 

Let, my Mary be your care : 
Let her form sae fair and faultless. 

Fair and faultless as your own, 
Let my Mary's kindred spirit 

Draw your choicest influence down. 



Make the gales you waft around her' 

Soft and peaceful as her breast ; 
Breathing in the breeze that fans her, 

Soothe her bosom into re^t : 
Guardian angels ! protect her, 

When in distant lands I roam ; 
To realms unknown while fate exiles me. 

Make her bosom still my home. 



THE LASS OF BALLOCHMYLB. 

Tune — ^'Miss Forbes' s Farewell to Banff." 

[Miss Alexander, of Ballochmyle, as the poet tells k« 
in a letter, dated November, 1786, inspired this popula) 
song. He chanced to meet her in one of his fafourit* 
walks on the banks of the Ayr, and the fine scene and 
the lovely lady set the muse to work. Miss Alexander 
perhaps unaccustomed to this forward wooing of tk« 
muse, allowed the offering to remain unnoticed for % 
time : it is now in a costly frame, and hung in her cham- 
ber — as it deserves to be.] 



*TwAs even — the dewy fields were green. 

On every blade the pearls hang. 
The zephyr wanton'd round the bean, 

And bore its fragrant sweets alang : 
In ev'ry glen the mavis sang. 

All nature listening seem'd the while, 
Except where greenwood echoes rang 

Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle I 



With careless step I onward stray' d, 

My heart rejoic'd in nature's joy, 
When musing in a lonely glade, 

A maiden fair I chanc'd to spy ; 
Her Iqpk was like the morning's eye. 

Her air like nature's vernal smile. 
Perfection whisper'd passing by. 

Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle ! 



Fair is the morn in flow'ry May, 

And sweet is night in autumn mild 
When roving thro' the garden gay, 

Or wand'ring in the lonely wild ; 
But woman, nature's darling child ! 

There all her chai-ms she does compile ; 
Even there her other works are foil'd 

By the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. 



0, had she been a country maid. 

And I the happy country swain, 
Tho' shelter'd in the lowest shed 

That ever rose on Scotland's plain. 
Thro' weary winter's wind and rain. 

With joy, with rapture, I would toilj 
And nightly to my bosom strain 

The bonnie lass d' Ballochmyle. 



OF R-OBEET BURNS. '221 


T. 


The scenes where wretched fancy roves. 


TheL pride might climb the slippery steep, 


Pursuing past, unhappy loves ! 


Where fame and honours lofty shine : 


Farewell, my friends! farewell, my foes 4 


And thirst of gold might tempt the deep 


My peace with these, my love with those 


Or downward seek the Indian mine ; 


The bursting tears my heart declare ; 


flive me the cot below the pine, 


Farewell, the bonnie banks of Ayr ' 


To tend the flocks, or till the soil, 




And ev'ry day have joys divine 






With the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. 






XXXII. 
WHA'R DID YE GET 




XXXI, 


Tune — "Bonnie Dundee." 


THE GLOOMY NIGHT. 


[This is one of the first songs which Burns commnu. 


Tune — " Eoslin Castle." 


cated to Johnson's Musical Museum : the starting vers* 




is partly old and part.y new : the se ond is wholly by hil 


[" 1 had taken," says Burns, " the last farewell of my 


hand.] 


fri«nds,my chest was on the road to Greenock, and I had 


I. 


eomposed the last song I should ever measure in Caledo-' 


aia— 


0, WHAR did ye get that hauver meal bannock t 


' The gloomy night is gathering fast.' "] 


silly blind body, dinna ye see ? 


I. 


I gat it frae a young brisk sodger laddie. 




Between Saint Johnston and bonnie Dundee. 


The gloomy night is gath'ring fast. 




Loud roars the wild inconstant blast; 


gin I saw the laddie that gae me't ! 


Yon murky cloud is foul with rain. 


Aft has he doudl'd me up on his knee ; 


I see it driving o'er the plain ; 
The hunter now has left the moor, 


May Heaven protect my bonnie Scots laddie, 


And send him safe hame to his babie ana 


The scatter'd coveys meet secure ; 


me! 


While here I wander, prest with care. 


II. 


Along the lonely banks of Ayr. 


My blessin's upon thy sweet wee lippie, 




My blessin's upon thy bonnie e'e brie ! 


II. 


Thy smiles are sae like my blythe sodger laddie, 


The Autumn mourns her rip'ning corn. 


Thou's ay the dearer and dearer to me ! 


Rj early Winter's ravage torn ; 


But I'll big a bower on yon bonnie banks. 


4.eross her placid, azure sky, 


Where Tay rins wimplin' by sae clear ; 


She sees the scowling tempest fly : 


And I'll deed thee in the tartan sae fine. 


Chill runs my blood to hear it rave — 


And mak thee a man like thy daddie dear 


I think upon the stormy wave. 




Where many a danger I must dare, 
Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr. 






III. 


xxxm, 


'Tis not the surging billow's roar. 


THE JOYFUL WIDOWER 


Tis not that fatal deadly shore ; 
Tho' death in ev'ry shape appear. 


Tune — " Maffffr/ Lauder,' 


The wretched have no more to fear ! 


[Most of this song is by Burns : his fancy was &. M 


But round my heart the ties are bound, 


with images of matrimonial joy or infelicity, aad 1.9 hat 


That heart transpierc'd with many a wound ; 
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear, 


them ever ready at the call of the muse It w^ft irm 
printed in the Musical Museum 1 


To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr. 


I. 




I MAKBIED with a scolding wife 


IV. 


The fourteenth of November ; 


Farewell old Coila's hills and dales, 


She made me weary of my life. 


H<5i heathy moors and winding vales ; 


By one unruly member. 



222 THE POETICAL WORKS 


Long did I bear the heavy yoke, 


XXXV. 


And many griefs attended ; 




But to my comfort be it spoke, 


I AM MY MAMMY'S AE BAIRN. 


Now, now her life is ended. 


Tune — "/"m o'er young to marry yet." 


II. 


[The title, and part of the chorus only of this song, s.t% 


We liv'd full one-and-twenty years 


old ; the rest is by Burns, and was written for Johnson. 


A man and wife together ; 


I. 


A.t length from me her course she steer' d, 


I AM my mammy's ae bairn, 


And gone I know not whither : 


Wi' unco folk I weary. Sir ; 


Would I could guess, I do profess. 


And lying in a man's bed. 


I speak, and do not flatter, 


I'm fley'd it make me eerie, Siit 


Of all the woman in the world, 


I'm o'er young to marry yet ; 


I never could come at her. 


I'm o'er young to marry yet ; 


III. 


I'm o'er young — 'twad be a s5n 


Her body is bestowed well. 


To tak' me frae my mammy yet 


A handsome grave does hide her ; 


II. 


But sure her soul is not in hell. 




The deil would ne'er abide her. 


Hallowmas is come and gane. 


I rather think she is aloft, 


The nights are lang in winter. Sir ; 


And imitating thunder ; 
For why, — methinks I hear her voic9 


And you an' I in ae bed. 


In trouth, I dare na venture. Sir. 


Tearing the clouds asunder. 


III. 




Eu' loud and shrill the frosty wind, 




Blaws through the leafless timmer. Sir; 
But, if ye come this gate again. 






I'll aulder be gin simmer, Sir. 


XXXIV. 


I'm o'er young to marry yet ; 


COME DOWN THE BACK STAIRS. 


I'm o'er young to marry yet ; 




I'm o'er young, 'twad be a sin 


Twae — " Whistle, and Pll come to you, my lad." 


To tak me frae my mammy yet 


[The air of this song was composed by John Bnice, a 


■ 


Dumfries fiddler. Burns gave another and happier ver- 




lion to the work of Thomson : this was written for the 




1 useum of Johnson, where it was first published.] 




CHOBUS. 


xxxvr. 


whistle, and I'll come 


BONNIE LASSIE, WILL YE GO 


To you, my lad ; 




whistle, and I'll come 


Tune—" The birhs of Aberfeldy." 


To you, my lad : 


[An old strain, called " The Birks of Abergeldie," wai 


Tho' father and mither 


the forerunner of this sweet song : it was written, th« 


Should baith gae mad. 


poet says, standing under the Fails oi Aberfeldy, near 


whistle, and I'll come 


Moness, in Perthshire, during one of the tours whicH h« 
made to the north, in the year 1787.] 


To you, my lad. 






CHORUS. 


Come down the back stairs 


Bonnie lassie, will ye go, 


When ye come to court me ; 


Will ye go, will ye go ; 


Come down the back stairs 


Bonnie lassie, will ye go 


When ye come to court me ; 


To the birks of Aberfeldy ? 


)me down the back stairs. 




And let naebody see, 


I. 


And come as ye were na 


Now simmer blinks on flowery brafts. 


Coming to me. 


And o'er the crystal streamlet plays; 



OF ROBEET BURNS '<:ii5 


Come let us spend the lightsome days 


II. * 


In the birks of Aberfeldy. 


Oh, what is death but parting ]>'e^»^ih > 




On many a bloody plain 


II. 


I've dar'd his face, and in this place 


The little birdies blithely sing, 


I scorn him yet again ! 


While o'er their heads the hazels hing, 




Or lightly flit on wanton wing 


III. 


In the birks of Aberfeldy. 


Untie these bands from off my bands, 


• 


And bring to me my swoxd ; 


III. 


And there's no a man in all Scotland, 


The braes ascend, like lofty wa's, 


But I'll brave him at a word. 


The foamy stream deep-roaring fa's, 




O'erhung wi' fragrant spreading shaws, 


IV. 


The birks of Aberfeldy. 


I've liv'd a life of stu-rt and strife , 




I die by treacherie : 


IV. 


It burns my heart I must depart. 


The hoary cliffs are crown'd yi' flowers, 


And not avenged be. 


White o'er the linns the burnie po'urs, 




And rising, weets wi' misty showers 
The birks of Aberfeldy. 


Now farewell light — thou sunshine bright, 
And all beneath the sky I 


Y. 


May coward shame distain his name, 




The wretch that dares not die ! 


Let Fortune's gifts at random flee, 


Sae rantingly, sae wantonly. 


They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me, 


Sae dauntingly gaed he ; 


Supremely blest wi' love and thee, 


He piay'd a spring, and dano'd it roonil 


In the birks of Aberfeldy. 


Below the gallows-tree. 


Bonnie lassie, will ye go. 




Will ye go, will ye go ; 
Bonnie lassie, will ye go 






To tl»e birks of Aberfeldy? 


XXXVIII. 




BRAW LADS OF GALL/ »VATFR 
Tune—" Galla Witer. 






[Burns found this song m the collection of Herd 


xxxvn. 


added the first verse, made other but not material emen 




dations, and published it in Johnson : in 1793 he wiou 


MACPHERSON'S FAREWELL. 


another version for Thomson.] 




CHORUS. 


Tun«— IfPhersori's Rant." 






Braw, braw lads of Galla Water ; 


iThia vehement and daring song had its origin in an 


braw lads of Galla Water : 


Pider atd inferior strain, recording the feelings of a noted 
fireaboovs; when brought to "justify his deeds on the 


I'll kilt my coats aboon my knee. 


|»ilow«ues It Inverness.] 


And follow nay love thro' the water. 


Fabewell, ye dungeons dark and *rong, 


I. 

Sab fair her hair, sae brent her brow, 


The wretch's destinie ! 


Sae bonny blue her een, my dearie ; 


Ilacpherson's time will not be long 


Sae white her teeth, sae sweet her mou', 


On yonder gallows-tree. 


The mair I kiss she's ay my dearie. 


Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, 




Sae dauntingly gaed he ; 


II. 


He piay'd a spring, and danc'd it round, 


O'er yon bank and o'er yon brae. 


Below tiie gallows-tree. 


O'er yon moss amang the heather r 



224 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



. 11 kilt my coats aooon my knee, 


II. 


And follow my love thro' the water. 

III. 
Down amang the broom, the broom, 

Down amang the broom, my dearie, 
The -lassie lost a silken snood. 


Crystal streamlets gently flowing, 
Busy haunts of base mankind, 

Western breezes softly blowing, 
Suit not my distracted mind. 

III. 


That cost her mony a blirt and bleary. 
Braw, braw lads of Galla Water ; 
braw lads of Galla-Water : 


In the cause of Right engaged. 
Wrongs injurious to redress, 
Honour's war we strongly waged. 


I'll kilt my coats aboon my knee. 
And follow my love thro' the water. 


But the heavens denied success 




Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us, 


XXXIX 


Not a hope that dare attend, 
The wild world is all before us- 




But a world without a friend 


STAY, MY CHARMER. 




Tune— " J.71 Gille dubh dar dhubh." 





[The air of this song was picked up by the poet in one 
»f his northern tours : his Highland excursions coloured 
many of his lyric compositions.] 



Stay, my charmer, can you leave me ? 

Cruel, cruel, to deceive me ! 

Well you know how much you grieve me ; 

Cruel charmer, can you go ? 

Cruel charmer, can you go ? 



By my love so ill requited ; 

By the faith you fondly plighted ; 

By the pangs of lovers slighted ; 

Do not, do not leave me so ! 

Do not, do not leave me so! 



THICKEST NIGHT, O'ERHANG MY 
DWELLING. 

Tune — " StrathaUa?i's Lament." 

f'fhfi Viscount Strathallan, whom this song comme- 
mcraies was Wilaam Drummond : he was slain at the 
jarnage of Culloden. It was lOng believed that he es- 
caped to France and died in exile.] 



Thickest night, surround my dwelling f 
Howling tempests, o'er me rave ! 

Turbid torrents, wintry swelling. 
Roaring by my lonely cave ! 



MY H G G I E. 

Tune — " What will I do gin my Hoggie diet" 

[Burns was struck w^ith the pastoral wildness of thi 
Liddesdale air, and wrote these words to it for the 9&t 
seam: the first line only is old.] 

What will I do gin my Hoggie die ? 

My joy, my pride, my Hoggie! 
My only beast, 'I had nae mae. 

And vow but I was vogie ! 
The lee-lang night we watch'd the faula, 

Me and my faithfu' doggie ; 
We heard nought but the roaring limi, 

Amang the braes sae scroggie ; 
But the houlet cry'd frae the castle wa'j, 

The blitter frae the boggle. 
The tod reply'd upon the hill, 

I trembled for my Hoggie. 
When day did daw, and cocks did craw, 

The morning it was foggie ; 
An' unco tyke lap o'er the dyke, 

And maist has kill'd my Hoggie. 



XLII. ^ 

HER DADDIE FORBAD. 

Tune — "Jumpin^ John." 

[This is one of the old sonsrs which Ritson accuDM 
Burns of amending for tne Museum: little of it how- 



OF ROBEET BUENS. 



225 



•ver. is his, save a touch here and there— but they are 




Burns's touches.] 


XLIV. 


I. 


THE 


Heb daddie forbad, her minnie forbad; 


YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVER. 


Forbidden she wadna be : 




Bbe wadua trow't, the browst she brew'd 


Tune — ^' Morag." 


Wad taste sae bitterlie. 


[The Young Highland Rover of this strain is suppossi 


The lang lad they ca' jumpin' Jffhn 


by some to be the Chevalier, and with more probabi.ity 


Beguiled the bonnie lassie, 
The lang lad they ca' Jumpin' John 


by others, to be a Gordon, as the song w:is composed ia 


consequence of the poet's visit to " bonnie Castle Got 
• don," in September, 1787.] 


Beguiled the bonnie lassie. 


I. 


li. 


Loud blaw the frosty breezes. 


A cow and a cauf, a yowe and a hauf, 


The snaws the mountain^ cover ; 


And +hretty gude shillin's and three ; 


Like winter on me seizes. 


A vera gude tocher, a cotter-man's dochter, 


Since my young Highland rover 


, Tho lass wi' the bonnie black e'e. 


Far wanders nations over. 


The lang lad they ca' Jumpin' John 


Where'er he go, where'er he stray, 


Beguiled the bonnie lassie, 


May Heaven be his warden :" 


The lang lad they ca' Jumpin' John 


Return him safe to fair Strathspey, 


Beguiled the bonnie lassie. 


And bonnie Castle-Gordon ! 


XLIII 


II. 

The trees now naked groaning, 




Shall soon wi' leaves be hinging. 


UP IN THE MORNING EARLY 


The birdies dowie moaning, 


Tune — " Co A blows the wind." 


Shall a' be blithely singing, 


I" The chorus of this song," says the poet, in nis notes 


And every flower be springing. 


on the Scottish Lyrics, " is old, the two stanzas are 


Sae I'll rejoice the lee-lang day, 


mine." The air is ancient, and was a favourite - 


When by his mighty Warden 


Mary Stuart, the queen of William the Tb-'d.] 


My youth's returned to fair Strathspeys 




And bonnie Castle-Gordon. 


CHOKUS. 




Up in the morning's no for me. 




Up in the morning early ; 




When a' the hills are cover'd wi' snaw, 




I'm sure it's winter fairly. 


XLV. 


I. 


HEY, THE DUSTY MILLER, 


Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west, 


Tune— '« The Dusty Miller." 


The drift is driving sairly ; 




Sae loud and shill I hear the blast, 


[The Dusty Miller is an old stram, modified for Hat 


I'm sure it's winter fairly. 


Museum by Burns : it is a happy specimen of his t*»» 
and skill in making the new look like the old .J 


II. 

The birds sit chittering in the thorn, 


I. 

Hey, the dusty miller. 


A' day they fare bul sparely ; 


And his dusty coat; 


And lang's the night frae e'en to morn — 


He will win a shilling. 


I'm sure it's winter fairly. 


Or he spend a groat. 


Up in the morning's no for me. 


Dusty was the coat. 


Up in the morning early ; 


Dusty was the colour, 


When a' the hills are cover'd wi' snaw, 


Dusty was the kiss 


I'm sure it's winter fairly. 


That I got frae the miller 



iiiBBJHaHAiMi 



226 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



Hey, the dusty miller, 
And his dusty sack ; 
Leeze me on the calling 
Fills the dusty peck. 
Fills the dusty peck, 

Brings the dusty siller ; 
I wad gie my coatie 
For the dusty miller. 



THERE WAS A LASS. 
Tune — '* Duncan Davison." 

\ . Tiere are several other versions of Duncan DaviSon, 
wife !h it is more delicate to allude to than to quote : this 
TO? is in t le Museum.] 

I. 
Theee was a lass, they ca'd her Meg, 

And she held o'er the moors to spin; 
^here was a lad that foUow'd her, 
They ca'd him Duncan Davison. 
• The moor. was driegh, and Meg was skiegh. 
Her favour Duncan could na win ; 
For wi' the roke she wad him knock, 
And ay she shook the temper-pin. 



As o'er the moor they lightly foor, 

A burn was clear, a glen was green, 
Tpon the banks they eas'd-their shanks, 

A^d ay she set the wheel between : 
But Duncan swore a haly aith. 

That Meg should be a bride the morn, 
?hen Meg took up her spinnin' graith, 

And flang them a' out o'er the burn. 



rre'll big a housa, — a -wee, wee house. 

And we will live like king and queeij 
a&e blythe and merry we will be 

When ye set by the wheel at e'en. 
A man may drink and no be drunk; 

A man may fight and no be slain • 
A man may kiss, a bonnie lass. 

And ay be welcome back again. 



THENIEL MENZIES' BONNIE MART. 

Tune. — " The Ruffian's Rant." 

[Burns, it is telieved, Mrrote this song during his firpi 
Highland tour, when he danced among the noithen 
dames, to the tune of "Bab at the Bowster," till tb« 
morning sun rose aad reproved them from tue top of B«i 
Lomond.] 

In coming by the brig o' Dye, 

At Darlet we a blink did tarry ; 
As day was dawin in the sky. 

We drank a health to bonnie Mary. 

Theniel Menzies' bonnie Mary; 

Theniel Menzies' bonnie Mary; 
Charlie Gregor tint his plaidie, 
Kissin' Theniel's bonnie Mary. 



Her een sae bright, her brow sae white, 
Her haffet locks as brown's a berry ; 

And ay, they dimpl't wi' a smile, 
The rosy cheeks o' bonnie Mary. 



We lap and danced the lee lang day. 

Till piper lads were wae and weary , 
But CharHe gat the spring to pay. 
For kisSin' Theniel's bonnie Mary. 

Theniel Menzies' bonnie Mary ; 

Theniel Menzies' bonnie Mary ; 
Charlie Gregor tint his plaidie, 
Kissin' Theniel's bonnie Marv. 



XLVIII. 
THE BANKS OF THE DE\ ON. 

Tune. — " Bhannerach dhon na chri." 

[These verses were composed on a charming yourg 
lady, Charlotte Hamilton, sister to the poet's friend, 
Gavin Hamilton of Mauchline, residing, when the song 
was written, at Harvieston, on the banks of the Devon 
in tiii- county of Clackmannan.] 



How pleasant the banks of thr cleai winding 
Devon, 
With green spreading bushes, and flowtra 
blooming fair I 



OF KOBEKT BUENS. 



22:i 



But the bonniest flower on the banks of the 
Devon 
Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the 
Ayr. 
Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower, 
In the gay rosy morn, as it bathes in the 
dew; 
And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower, 
That steals on the evening each leaf to re- 



But, Duncan, gin ye'll keep your aith — 

Ha, ha, the girdin o't! 
I'se bless you wi' my hindmost breath — 

Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! 
• Duncan, gin ye'll keep your aith, 
The beast again can bear us baith. 
And auld Mess John will mend the skaith, 

And clout the bad girdin o't. 



spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, 

With chill hoary wing, as ye usher the dawn ; 
And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes 

The verdure and pride of the garden and 
lawn ! 
Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded Lilies, 

And England, triumphant, display her proud 
Rose: 
A fairer than either adorns the green valleys, 

Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows. 



XLIX. 

IVEAUY FA' YOU, DUNCAN GRAY. 

Tune — ^^ Duncan Gray." 

[The oriprinal Duncan Gray, out of which the present 
trail was extracted for Johnson, had no right to be called 

lad of grace : another version, and m a happier mood, 
Iras vritten for Thomson.] 

I. 

Weaky fa' you, Duncan Gray — 

Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! 
Wae gae by you, Duncan Gray — 

Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! 
When a' the lave gae to their play, 
Then I maun sit the lee lang day, 
And jog the cradle wi' my tae. 

And a' for the girdin o't ! 



Bonnie was the Lammas moon — 

Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! 
Glowrin' a' the hills aboon — 

Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! 
The girdin brak, the beast cam down, 
I tint my curch, and baith my shoon ; 
Ah ! Duncan, ye're an unco loon — 

Wae on tht bad girdin o't! 



THE PLOUGHMAN. 



Tune- 



TJp wi' the ploughman." 



[The old words, of which these in the Museum are ai 
altered and amended version, are in the collection o« 
Herd.] 



The ploughman he's a bonnie lad, 

His mind is ever true, jo. 
His garters knit below his knee. 
His bonnet it is blue, jo. 

Then up wi' him my .ploughman lad, 

And hey my merry ploughman ! 
Of a' the trades that I do ken. 
Commend me to the ploughman 



My ploughman he comes hame at e'ea. 
He's aften wat and weary ; 

Cast off the wat, put on the dry, 
And gae to bed, m/ dearie ! 

III. 
I will wash my ploughman's hose. 

And I will dress his p'erlay; 
I will mak my ploughman's bed. 

And cheer him late and early. 

IV. 

I hae been east, I hae been west, 
I hae been at Saint Johnston ; 

The bonniest sight that e'er I saw 
Was the ploughman ladj^ie dancin'. 



Snaw-white stockins on his legs, 
And siller buckles glancin' , 

A gude blue bonnet on his head— 
And 0. but he was handsome ' 



i-2n THE POETICAL WORKS 


VI. 


death of her sister, and the still more melancho y deati 




of her sister's husbar.d, the late Earl of Loudon, in 1T96. ' 


Commeud me to the barn-yard, 




And the corn-mou, man; • 


I. 


I never gat my coggie fou, 


Raving winds around her blowing, 


Till I met wi' the ploughman. 


Yellow leaves the woodlands strowing, 


Up wi' hijja my ploughman lad, 


By a river hoarsely roaring. 


And hey my merry ploughman 1 


Isabella stray'd deploring — 


Of a' the trades that I do ken. 


" Farewell hours that late did measure 


Commend me to the ploughman. 


Sunshine days of joy and pleasure; 




Hail, thou gloomy night of sorrow, 




Cheerless night that knows no morrow ! 


LI. 


II. 


LiNDLADY, COUNT THE LAWIN. 


" O'er the past too fondly wandering, 




On the' hopeless future pondering ; 


Tune—" Rey tutti, taiti." 


Chilly grief my life-blood freezes. 


[Of this song, the first and second verses are by Burns : 


Fell despair my fancy seizes. 


!he Closing verse belongs to a strain threatening Britain 


Life, thou soul of every blessing, 


With an invasion from the iron-handed Charles XII. of 


Load to misery most distressing, 


Sweden, to avenge his own wrongs and restore the line 
of the Stuarts.] 

k I. 


Gladly how would I resign thee. 


And to dark oblivion join thee!" 


Landlady, count the lawin. 




The day is near the dawin; 
Ye're a' blind drunk, boys. 






And I'm but jolly fou, 




Hey tutti, taiti, 


LIII. 


How tutti, taiti — 




Wha's fou now ? 


HOW LONG AND DREARY IS THE NIGHT 


• 11. 

Cog an' ye were ay fou, 


To a Gaelic air. 


[Composed for the Museum : the air of this aflectinf 
strain is true High.and : Burns, though not a musician 


Cog an' ye were ay fou. 


had a fine natural taste in the matter of national melo 


I wad sit and sing to you 


dies.] 


If ye were ay fou. 


I. 


III. i 


How long and dreary is the night 


Weel may ye a' be ! 


When I am frae my dearie i 


Ill may we never see . 


I sleepless lie frae e'en to morn, 


God bless the king, 


Tho' I were ne'er sae weary. 


And the companie! 


I sleepless lie frae e'en to morn, 


Hey tutti, taiti. 


Tho' I were ne'er sae weary. 


How tutti, taiti— 


II. 


Wha's fou now? 




When I think on the happy days 




I spent wi' you, my dearie. 
And now what lands between us lie 






How can I but be eerie ! 


LII. 


And now what lands between us liOj 


RAVING WINDS AROUND HEE BLOWING. 


How can I be but eerie ! 


Tune — " Macgregor of Eiira's Lament" 


III. 


["I composed these verses," says Burns, "on Miss 


How slow ye move, ye heavy hours. 


■ahell; M'Leo-l, of Raza, alluding to he ■ feelings on the 


As ye were wae and weary ! 



It was na sae ye glinted by, 
When I was wi' my dearie. 

It was na sae ye glinted by, 
When I was wi' my dearie. 



MUSING ON THE ROARING OCEAN. 
Tune — ^^ Druimion dubh." 

[Tke air of this song is from the Highlands : the verses 
were written m compliment to the feelings of Mrs. 
W'liauchlan, whose husband was an officer serving in 
fl'.e East Indies.l 

1. 

Musing on the roaring ocean, 
Which divides my love and me ; 

Wearying heaven in warm devotion, 
For his weal where'er he be. 



Hope and fear's alternate billow 
Yielding late to nature's law, 

Whisp'ring spirits round my pillow 
Talk of him that's far awa. 



le whom sorrow never wounded, 
Ye who never shed a tear. 

Care-untroubled, joy-surrounded, 
Gaudy day to you is dear. 



Gentle night, do thou befriend me ; 

Downy sleep, the curtain draw; 
Spirits kind, again attend me, 

Talk of him that's far awa ! 



By Auchtertyre grows the aik. 

On Yarrow banks the birken shaw; 

But Phemie was a bonnier lass 
Than braes of Yarrow ever saw. 



Her looks were like a flow'r in May, 
Her smile was like a simmer morn ; 

She tripped by the banks of Ern, 
As light 's a bird upon a thorn. 



Her bonnie face it was as meek 

As ony lamb upon a lea ; 
The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet. 

As was the blink o' Phemie's ee 



The Highland hills I've wander'd wide. 

And o'er the Lowlands I hae been; 
But Phemie was the blithest lass 
That ever trod the dewy green. • 
Blithe, blithe and merry was she, 

Blithe was she but and ben : 
Blithe by the banks of Ern_ 
And blithe in Glenturit glen 



BLITHE WAS SHE. 

Tune — "Andro and his cutty gun." 

[The heroine of this song, Euphemia Murray, of Lin- 
Bose was justly called the "Flower of Strathmore :" 
ihe is now widow of Lord Methven, one of the Scottish 
judges, and mother of a fine family. The song was 
trittei, at Ochtertyre, in June 1787.] 

CHORUS. 
Blithe, blithe and merry was she, 

Blithe was she but and ben: 
Blithe by the banks of Ern, 

And blithe ii Glenturit glen. 



THE BLUDE RED ROSE AT YULS 
MAY BLAW, 

Tune — " To daunton me." 

[The Jacobite strain of " To daunton me," must hav 
been in tlie mind of the poet when he vvnrote this pithj 
lyric for the Museum.] 

I. 

The blude red rose at Yule may blaw. 

The simmer lilies bloom in snaw. 

The frost may freeze the deepest sea ; 

But an auld man shall never daunton me. 
To daunton me, and me so ycnng, 
Wi' his fause heart and flatt'ring tongue 
That is the thing you ne'er shall see ; 
For an auld man shall never daunton nie 



For a' his meal and a' his maut. 
For a' his fresh beef and his saut, 
For a' his gold and white monie. 
An auld man shall never daunton i^e. 



zr^o 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



His gear may buy him kye and yowes, 
His gear may buy him glens and knowes ; 
But me he shall not buy nor fee, 
For an auld man shall never daunton me. 



ile hirples twa fauld as he dow, 
Wl his teethless gab and his auld beld pow, 
And the rain rains down frae his red bleer'd ee- 
That auld man shall never daunton me. 
To daunton me, and me sae young, 
Wi' his fause heart and flatt'ring tongue, 
That is the thing you ne'er shall see ; 
For an auld man shall never daunton me. 



CCME BOAT ME. O'ER TO CHARLIE. 

Tune — " O'er the water to Charlie." 

[The second stanza of this song, and nearly all the 
third, are by Burns. Many songs, some of merit, on the 
Bame subject, and to the same air, were in other days 
current in Scotland.] 

I. 

Come boat me o'er, come row me o'er, 

Come boat me o'er to Charlie ; 
. '11 gie John Ross another bawbee, 
To boat me o'er to Charlie. 

We'll o'er the water and o'er the sea, 

We'll o'er the water to Charlie ; 
■ Come weal, come woe, we'll gather and go, 
And live or die wi' Charlie. 



I lo'e weel my Charlie's name, 
Tho' some there be abhor him : 

But 0, to see auld Nick gaun hame,. 
An ^ Charlie's faes before him ! 



1 svvear ai d vow by moon and slars. 

And sun that shines so early. 
If I had twenty thousand lives, 
I'd die as aft for Charlie. 

We'll o'er the water and o'er the sea, 

We'll o'er the water to Charlie ; 
Come weal, come woe, we'll gather and go. 
And live or die wi' Charlie ! 



A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK, 

Tune — " The Rose-bud." 

[The " Rose-bud" of these sweet verses was Mial 
Jean Cruikshank, afterwards Mrs. Heuderson, daughtei 
cf William Cruikshank, of St. James's Square, one of 
the masters of the High School of Edinburgh : she 4 
also the subject of a poem equally sweet.] 

I. 

A ROSE-BUD by my early walk, 
Adown a corn-enclosed bawk, 
Sae gently bent its thorny stalk. 

All on a dewy morning. 
Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled. 
In a' its crimson glory spread. 
And drooping rich the dewy head. 

It scents the early morning. 



Within the bush, her covert nest 

A little linnet fondly prest. 

The dew sat chilly on her breast 

Sae early in the morning. 
She soon shall see her tender brood, 
The pride, the pleasure o' the wood, 
Amang the fresh green leaves bedew 'd, 

Awake the early morning. 



So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair, 
On trembling string or vocal air, 
Shall sweetly pay the tender care 

That tends thy early morning. 
So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay, 
Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day. 
And bless the parent's evening ray 

That watch'd thy early morning. 



RATTLIN', ROARIN' WILLIE 

Time — '*Rattlin', roarin' Willie." 

[" The hero of this chant," says Burns ''wis O'co i ( 
the worthiest fellows in the world — William Dunbar, 
Esq., Writer to the Signet, Edinburgh, and Colonel o 
the Crochallan corps — a club of wits, who took that titU 
at the time of raising the fencible regiments."] 

I. 

kattlin', roarin' Willie, 

0, he held to the tair, i 

An' for to sell his fiddle. 
An' buy some other ware , 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 231 


But parting wi' his fiddle, 


LXI. 


The saut tear blint his ee ; 


' 


And rattlin', roarin' Willie, 


TIBBIE DUNBAR. 


Te're welcome hame to me ! 


Tune — "Johnny M'Gill." 




[We owe the air of this song to one Johnny M Gill, 


1 1. 


fiddler of Girvan, who bestowed his own name on it : anf 


C Willie, come sell your fiddle, 


the song itself partly to Burns and partly to som« an 


sell your fiddle sae fine ; 


known miustreK They are both in the Museum.] 


Willie, come sell your fiddle, 


I. 


And buy a pint o' wine ! 


0, WILT thou go wi- me, 


If I should sell my fiddle, 


Sweet Tibbie Dunbar ? 


The warl' would, think I was mad ; 


0, wilt thou go wi' me, 


For mony a rantin' day 


Sweet Tibbie Dunbar ? 


My fiddle and I hae had. 


Wilt thou ride on a horse. 


III. 

As I cam by Crochallan, 
I cannily keekit ben — 


Or be drawn in a car. 


Or walk by my side, 
0, sweet Tibbie Dunbar ? 


Rattlin', roarin' Willie 


II. 


Was sittin' at yon board en' ; 


I care na thy daddie. 


Sitting at yon board en', 


His lands and his money. 


And amang good companie ; 


I care na thy kindred. 


Rattlin', roarin' Willie, 


Sae high and sae lordly ' 


•''e're welcome hame to me ! 


But say thoi: wilt hae me 




For better for waur — 
And come in thy coatie. 






Sweet Tibbie Dunbar' 


LX. 
FRAYING ANGRY WINTER'S STORMS. 






Tune — " Neil Gow's Lamentation for Abercairny." 


LXII. 


I" This song," says the poet, " I composed on one of 




klie most accomplished of women, Miss Peggy Chalmers 


STREAMS THAT GLIDE IN 


a»at was, now Mrs. Lewis Hay, of Forbes and Co.'s 


ORIENT PLAINS. 


i.ank, Edinburgh." She now lives at PaUj in the south 




If France.] 


Tune — "Moraff." 


I. 


[We owe these verses to the too brief visit which th« 


Wheke, braying angry winter's storms, 


poet, in 1787, made to Gordon Castle : he was hurried 


The lofty Ochels rise, 


away, much against his will, by his moody a«iJ o'lstina** 


Far in their shade my Peggy's charms 


friend William Nicol.] 


First blest my wondering eyes ; 


I. 


As one who by some savage stream^ 


Streams that glide in orient plains. 


A lonely gem surveys, 


Never bound by winter's chains ■ 


Astonish'd, doubly marks its beam, 


Glowing here on golden sands, 


With art's most polish'd blaze. 


There commix'd with foulest stains 




From tyranny's empurpled bands ; 


II. 


These, their richly gleaming waves, 


Blest be the wild, sequester'd shade. 


I leave to tyrants and their slaves ; 


And blest the day and hour, 


Give me the stream that sweetly lavej 


Where Peggy's charms I first survey'd, 


The banks by Castle-Gordon 


When first T felt their power ! 




The tyrant Death, with grim control, 


II. 


May seize my fleeting breath ; 


Spicy forests, ever gay, 


But tearing Peggy from my soul 


Shading from the burning ray, " 


Must he a stronger death. 


Hapless wretches sold to toil. 



232 



THE POETICAL WOEKS 



Or the ruthless native's way, 

Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil ; 
Woods that ever verdant wave, 
I leave the tyrant and the slave. 
Give me the groves that lofty brave 
The storms by Castle-Gordon. 



Wildly here without control, 
Nature reigns and rules the whole ; 

In that sober pensive mood. 
Dearest to the feeling soul. 

She plants the forest, pours the flood , 
Life's poor day I'll musing rave. 
And find at night a sheltering cave, 
Where waters flow and wild woods wave, 
By bonnie Castle-Gordon. 



MY HARRY WAS A GALLANT GAY. 

Tune — ^^Highlander's Lament." 

['< The chorus," says Burns, " I picked up from an old 
ivoman in Dumblane : the rest of the song is mine." He 
lomposed it for Johnson: the tone is Jacobitical.J 

I. 

]\It Harry was a gallant gay, 

Fu' stately strode he on the plain: 

But now he's banish'd far away, 
I'll never see him back again. 

for him back again ! 

for him back again ! 

1 wad gie a' Knockhaspie's land 

For Higkland Harry back again. 



When a' the lave gae to their bed, 
I wander dowie up the glen ; 

I set me down and greet my fill, 
And ay I wish him back again. 



tvere some villains hangit high, 
And ilka body had their ain ! 

Then I might see the joyfu' sight, 
My Highland Harry back again. 

for him back again ! 

for him back again ! 

1 wad gie a' Knockhaspie's land 

For Highland Harry back again. 



LXIV. 

THE TAILOR. 

Tune — " The Tailor fell thro' the bed, thimblet 



[The second and fourth verses are by Burns, the.iM# 
is very old, the air is also veiy old, and in ^jiayed atcrada 
festivals and processions by the Corpc : t'/'a of Tailors J 



The Tailor fell thro' the bed, thimbles an' a', 
The Tailor fell thro' the bed, thimbles an' a' ; 
The blankets were thin, and the sheets thej 

were sma', 
The Tailor fell thro' the bed, tnimbles an' a' 



The sleepy bit lassie, she dreaded nae ill, 
The sleepy bit lassie, she dreaded nae ill ; 
The weather was cauld, and the lassie lay still. 
She thought that a tailor could do her nae ill. 



Gie me the groat again, canny young man ; 
Gie me the groat again, canny young man ; 
The day it is short, and the night it is lang. 
The dearest siller that ever I wan ! 



There's somebody weary wi' lying her lano; 
There's somebody weary wi' lying her lane ; 
There's some that are dowie, I trow would be 

fain 
To see the bit tailor come skippin' again. 



LXV. 

SIMMER'S A PLEASANT TIME. 

Tune — "Ay waukin o'." 

[Tytlerand Ritsoi unite inconsidei.mg the airof thes* 
words as one of our most ancient meloaies. The firsi 
verse of the song is from the hand of Burns ; the rest ha^ 
the benefit of his emendations : it is to be found in du 
Museum.] 



Simmer's a pleasant time, 
Flow'rs of ev'ry colour ; 
The water rins o'er the heugh, 
And I long for my true lover 
Ay waukin 0, 

Waukin still and wearie. 
?leep I can get nane 
For thinking on my dearie. 



OF flOBEET BUENS. 231 




• 
11- 


the work of Burns. Every trade had, in other dayi, ai 


When I sleep I dream, 

When I wauk I'm eerie ; 
Sleep I can get nane 


air of its own, and songs to correspond ; but toil and 
sweat came in harder measure, and drove melodieB out 
of working-men's heads.] 




For thinking on my dearie. 


I. 
When rosy May comes in wi' flowera, 




in. 


To deck her gay green-spreading lowers, 


. 


Laneiy night comes on, 
A' the lave are sleeping ; 

1 think on my bonnie lad 
And 1 bleer my een with greetin'. 


Then busy, busy are his hours — 
The gard'ner wi' his paidle. 
The crystal waters gently fa' ; 
The merry birds are lovers a' ; 




. Ay waukin 0, 

Waukin'still and wearie: 
Sleep I can get nane 


The scented breezes round him blaw- 
The gard'ner wi' his paidle. 




For thinking on my dearie. 


II. 
When purple morning starts the hare 
To steal upon her early fare. 






LXVI. 

UEWARE 0' BONNIE ANN. 


Then thro' the dews he maun repair 




The gard'ner wi' his paidle. 
When day, expiring in the west. 




Tune — " Ye gallants bright." 


The curtain draws of nature's rest. 
He flies to her arms he lo'es best^ 




[Burns wrote this song in honour of Ann Masterton, 
ifaughter of Allan Masterton, author of the air of Strath- 


The gard'ner wi' his paidle 




sllan's Lament: she is now Mrs. Derbishire, and re- 






iideg in London.] 

I- 






# 




Ye gallants bright, I red ye right, 


Lxvin. 




Beware o' bonnie Ann ; 
fler comely face sae fu' o' grace. 


BLOOMING NELLY 




Your heart she will trepan. 


Tune — '* On a bank of flowers.'" 




Her een sae bright, like stars by night, 

Her skin is like the swan ; 
Sae j imply lac'd her genty waist. 


[One of the lyrics of Allan Ramsay's collection seaaa* 
to have be»i in the mind of Burns when he wrote this; 
the words and air are in the Museum.] 




That sweetly ye might span. 


I. 




II. 


On a bank of flowers, in a summer day, 




Jfouth, grace, and love attendant move, 


For summer lightly drest, 




And pleasure leads the van: 


The youthful blooming Nelly lay. 




In a' their charms, and conquering arms 


With love and sleep opprest , 




They wait on bonnie Ann. 


When Willie wand'ring thro' the wood, 




Th3 captive bands may chain the hands, 


Who for her favour oft had sued, 




But love enslaves the man ; 


He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'a. 




Ye gallants braw, I red you a', 


And tremblea where he stood 




Beware o' bonnie Ann ! 


II. 

Her closed eyes like weapons sheath'd. 
Were seal'd in soft repose ; 








LXVII. 


Her lips still as she fragrant breath'd. 




WHEN ROSY MAY. 


It richer dy'd the rose. 
The springing lilies sweetly prest. 




Tune — " The gardener wi' his paidle." 


Wild — wanton, kiss'd her rival breast : 




[The air of this song is played annually at the proces- 
«om of the Gardeners : the itle only is old ; the rest is 


He gaz'd, he wish'd, he feai'd, he blush'd 
His bosom ill at rest. 





k3t THE POETICAL WOKKS 


III. 


keep their place : the title is old. Both words and a- 


Her robes light waving in the breeze 


are in the Musical Museum.] 


Her tender limbs embrace ; 


I. 


Her lovely form, hei native ease, 


My love she's but a lassie yet, 


All harmony aild grace: 


My love she's but a lassie yet. 


Tumultuous tides his pulses roll, 


We'll let her stand a year or twa. 


A faltering, ardent kiss he stole ; 


She'll no be half so saucy yet. 


fie gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd, 


I rue the day I sought her, ; 


And sigh'd his very soul. 


I rue the day I sought her, ; 


IV. 


Wha gets her needs na say he's woo'd, 


As flies the partridge from the brake, 


But he may say he's bought her, ! 


On fear-inspired wings, 


II. 


So Nelly, starting, half awake. 


Away affrighted springs : 


Come, draw a drap o' the best o't yet ; 


But Willie follow' d, as he should, 


Come, draw a drap o' the best o't yet ; 


He overtook her in a wood; 


Gae seek for pleasure where ye will, 


He vow'd, he pray'd, he found the maid 


But here I never miss'd it yet. 


Forgiving all and good. 


^We're a' dry wi' drinking o't ; 




We're a' dry wi' drinking o't ; 




The minister kiss'd the fiddler's wife. 




LXIX. 


An' could na preach for thinkin' o't. 


THE DAY RETURNS. 

Tune — " Seventh of November." 






[The seventh of November was the anniversary of the 


LXXT. 


marriage of Mr. and Mrs. Riddel, of Friars-Carse, and 
these verses were composed in dBkiplimeut to the day.] 




JAMIE, GOME TRY ME. 


I, 


Tune — "■Jamy, come try me." 


The day returns, my bosom burns, 




[Burns in these verses caught up the starting aote ol 


The blissful day we twa did meet, 


an old song, of which little more than the starting wordi 


Tho' winter wild in tempest toil'd. 


deserve to be remembered : the words and air are ^r. th 


Ne'er summer-sun was half sae sweet. 


Musical Museum.] 


Than a' the pride that loads the tide. 


CHORUS, 


J. And crosses o'er the sultry line ; 


Jamie, come try me, 
Jamie, come try me ; 


Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes. 


Heaven gave me more — ^it made thee mine ! 


If thou would win my love, 


II. 


Jamie, come try me. 


While day and night can bring delight^ 




Or nature aught of pleasure give, 


I. 


While joys above my mind can move. 


If thou should ask my love. 


For thee, and thee alone I live. 


Could I deny thee ? 


When that grim foe of life below. 


If thou would win my love. 


Comes in between to make us part. 


Jamie, come try me. 


The iron hand that breaks our band, 




It breaks my bliss — ^it breaks my heart. 


II. 




If thou should kiss me, love, 




Wha could espy thee ? 


LXX. 


If thou wad be my love, 




Jamie, come try me. 


MY LOVE SHE'S BUT A LASSIE YET. 


Jamie, come try me. 


Tune — ^^ Lady BandimcotKs Reel." 


Jamie, come try me;. 


[These verses had their origin in an olden strain, 


If thou would win my love, 


•qually lively and less delicate : some of the old lines 


Jamie, come try me. 



OF KOBEKT BUKNS. 



23? 



MY BONNIE MARY. 

Tune — " Go fetch to me a pint o' wine." 

Concerning this line song, Burns in his notes says, 
' Tills air 's OswpU » ; Ae first half-stanza of the song is 
jJd the /ei* is miu?).'- It is believed, however, that the 
v\ »i )' tht leg is from his hand : in Hogg and Mother- 
veO'i sditioi. of Burns, the starting lines are supplied 
rum 'an olden strain : but some of the old strains in that 
iroik ure to be regarded with suspicion.] 

I. 

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, 

An' fill it in a silver tassie ; 
Tliat I may drink, before I go, 

A service to my bonnie lassie ; 
The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith ; 

Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry ; 
The ship rides by the Berwick-law, 

And I maun leave my bonnie Mary. 



The trumpets sound, the banners fly, 

The glittering spears are ranked ready ; 
The shouts o' war are heard afar, 

The battle closes thick and bloody ; 
It's not the roar o' sea or shore 

Wad make me langer wish to tarry ; 
Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar — 

It'd leaving thee, my bonnie Mary. 



THE LAZY MIST. 
Tune — " The lazy mist." 

l Ai that Burns says about the authorship of The Lazy 
MiBt, is, " This song is mine." The air, which is by Os- 
waifi, together with the words, is in the Musical Muse- 
am J 



The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill, 
Concealing the course of the dark winding rill ; 
How languid the scenes, late so^ sprightly, ap- 
pear ! 
As Autumn tO Winter resigns the pale year. 
The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown, 
And all the gay foppery of summer is flown : 
Apart let me wander,- apart let me muse, 
Tpw quick Time is flying, how keen Fate pur- 



How long have I liv'd, but how much liv'd is 

vain! 
How little of life's scanty span may remain I 
What aspects, old Time, in his progress, bai 

worn! 
I What ties cruel Fate in my bosom has torn ! 
How foolish, or worse, till our summit is gain' J' 
And downward, how weaken'd, how darken'd, 

how pain'd 1 
Life is not worth having with all it can give — 
For something beyond it poor man sure mxwl 

live. 



THE CAPTAIN'S LADY. 
Tune — " mount and go," 

[Part of this song belongs to an old maritime straia, 
with the same title : it was communicated, along with 
many other songs, made or amended by Burns, to tb« 
Musical Museum.] 

CHOBUS, 

mount and go. 

Mount and make you ready ; 
mount and go, 

And be the Captain's Lady 



When the drums do beat, 
And the cannons rattle, 

Thou shall sit in state, 
And see thy love in battle. 



When the vanquish'd foe 

Sues for peace and quiet. 
To the shades we'll go, 
And in love enjoy it. 
mount and go. 

Mount and make you ready j 
mount and go, 
And be the Captain's Lady. 



LXXV. 

OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN BLAW 
Tune — ^^ Miss Admiral Gordon's Strathspey." 

[Bums wrote this charming song innonourof Jean Ai 
mour : he archly says in his notes, " P S. it was dui-iiu 



di« hDtoy-moon." Other versions are abroad ; this one 
W from the manuosripts of the poet.] 



Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, 

I dearly like the west, 
For there the bonnie lassie lives, 

The lassie Ilo'e best: 
There wild-woods grow, and rivers row, 

And mony a hill between ; 
But day and night my fancy's flight 

Is ever wi' my Jean. 



I see her in the dewy flowers, 

I see her sweet and fair : 
I hear her in the tunefu^ birds, 

I hear her charm the air : 
There's not a bonnie flower that springs 

By fountain, shaw, or green. 
There's not a bonnie bird that sings, 

But minds me o' my Jean 



blaw, ye westlin winds, blaw saft 

Amang the leafy trees, 
Wi' balmy gale, frae hill and dale 

Bring hame the laden bees ; 
And bring the lassie back to me 
. That's aye sae neat and clean ; 
Ae smile o' her wad banish care, 

Sae charming is my Jean. 



What sighs and vows amang the knowes 

Hae passed atween us twa ! 
■ How fond to meet, how wae to part, 

That night she gaed awa ! 
The powers aboon can only ken, 

To whom the heart is seen, 
That nane can be sae dear to me 

A3 ny sweet lovely Jean ! 



MY 



FIRST WHEN MAGGY WAS 
CARE. 

Tune—"' Whistle o'er the lave o't." 

[The air of this song was composed by John Bruce, of 
Sumfries, nt aa Jian • the words, though originating in an 



olden strain, are wholly by Bums, and right bitter onei 
they are. The words and air are in the Museum.J 



FiEST when Maggy was my care, 
Heaven, I thought, was in her air ; 
Now we're married — spier nae maii>- 

Whistle o'er tbf lave o't. — 
Meg was meek, and Meg was mill, 
Bonnie Meg was nature's child ; 
Wiser men than me's beguil'd — 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. 



How we live, my Meg and me. 
How we love, and how we 'gree, 
I care na by how few may see ; 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. 
Wha I wish were maggot's meat. 
Dish'd up in her winding sheet, 
I could write — but Meg maun see't ■ 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. 



LXXVII. 
WERE I ON PARNASSUS HILL 

Tune — "Jfy love is lost to me." 

[The poet welcomed with this exquisite song hii wift 
to Nithsdale : the air is one of Oswald's.] 



0, WERE I on Parnassus' hill ! 
Or had of Helicon my fill ; 
That I might catch poetic skill. 

To sing how dear I love thee. 
But Nith maun be my Muse's well ; 
My Muse maun be thy bonnie sel': 
On Corsincon I'll glow'r ^nd spell, 

And write how dear 1 love thee. 



Then come, sweet Muse, inspire my lay ! 
For a' the lee-lang simmer's day 
I coudna sing, I coudna say. 

How much, how dear, I love thee. 
I see thee dancing o'er the green. 
Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean, 
Thy tempting lips, thy roguish een — 

By heaven and earth I lovs thee ! 



By night, by day, a-field, at hame. 
The thoughts o' thee my breast inflame , 



O'P ROBEKT BURNS. 



*li' 



And aye I muse and sing thy name — 

1 only live to love thee. 
J'ho' 1 wei-e doom'd to wander on 
IJeyoud the sea, beyond the sun, 
^'ill my last weary sand was run ; 
Till the** -and then I love thee. 



LXXVIII. 
THERE'S A YOUTH IN THIS CITY 

To a Gaelic Air. 

["This air,' says Burns, "is claimed by Neil Gow, 
who calls it a Lament for his Brother. The first half- 
Btdnza of the song is old : the rest is mine." They are 
both in the Museum.] 

I. 

There's a youth in this city, 

It were a great pity 
hat he frae our lasses shou'd wander awa : 

For he's bonnie an' braw, 

Weel-favour'd an' a, 
And his hair has a natural buckle an' a'. 

His coat is the hue 

Of his bonnet sae blue ; 
His feck it is white as the new-driven snaw ; 

His hose they are blae, 

And his shoon like the slae, 
• And his clear siller buckles they dazzle us a'. 



For beauty and fortune 

The laddie's been courtin' ; 
Weel-featured, weel-tccher'd, weel-mounted and 
braw ; 

But chiefly the siller, 

That gars him gang till her, 
The pennie's the jewel that beautifies a'. 

There's Meg wi' the mailen 

That fain wad a haen him ; 
And Susie, whose daddy was laird o' the ha' ; 

There's lang-tocher'd Nancy 

Maist fetters his fancy — 
But the laddie's dear sel' he lo'es dearest of a'. 



LXXIX. 
MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS. 

Tune — "Failte na Miosg." 

[The words and the air are in the Museu i, to which 
i«v were contributes' •'v Pnvns Ho Ra-<T» n his notes 



on that collection, " The first half-stanza of this song ii 
old; the rest mine." Of the old strain no one has re 
corded any remembranse.l 



My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is no^ 

here ; 
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer ; 
A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe — • 
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. 
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, 
The birth-plac6 of valour, the country of worth ; 
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove. 
The hills of the Highlands for ever [ love. 

II. 

Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with 

snow; 
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below : 
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods 
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. 
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not 

here. 
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the 

deer; 
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe-~ 
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. 



LXXX. . 

JOHN ANDERSON. 
Tune — " John Anderson, my jo." 

[Soon after the death of Burns, the very handsoraa 
Miscellanies of Brash and Reid, of Glasgow, contained 
what was called an improved John Anderson, from th« 
pen of the Ayrshire bard; but, save the seconl stanza. 
none of the new matter looked like his hand. 
"John Anderson, my jo, John, 
When nature first began 
To try her cannie hand, John, 
Her master-piece was man; 
And you amang them a', John^ 

Sae trig frae tap to toe, 
She proved to be nae journeywrk, 
John Anderson, my jo.] 



John Anderson, my jo, John, 

When we were first acquent. 
Your locks were like the raven. 

Your bonnie brow was brent ; 
But now your brow is held, John, 

Your locks are like the snaw : . 
But blessings on your frosty pow, 

John Anderson, my jo. 



"38 THE POETICAL WORKS 


II. 


Lxxxn. 


John Anderson, my jo, John, 




We clamb the hill thegither ; 


CA' THE EWES. 


And mony a canty day, John, 


Tune — " Ca' the ewes to the Mowea." 


We've had wi' ane anither : 




Now we maun totter down, John, 


[Most of this sweet pastoral is of other oaysi Batai 


But hand in hand we'll go ; 


made several emendations, and added the concludiuj 
verso. He afterwards, it will be observed, wrote ftf 


^d sleep thegither at the foot, 


Thomson a second version of the subject and the air. J 


John Anderson, my jo. 






CHOEUS. 




Ca' the ewes to the knowes. 




Ca' them whare the heather grows, 


LXXXf. 


Ca' them whare the burnie rowea, 


OUR THKISSLES FLOURISHED 


My bonnie dearie ! 


■ FRESH AND FAIR. 


I. 


Tune — " Awa Whigs, awa." 


As I gaed down the water-side. 


[Bums trimmed up this old Jacobite ditty for the Mu- 


There I met my shepherd lad. 


Bum, and added Bome of the bitterest bits : the second 


He row'd me sweetly in his plaid, 


od fourth verses are wholly his.] 


An' he ca'd me his dearie 


CHORUS. 


II. 


Awa Whigs, awa ! 


Will ye gang down the water-side. 


Awa Whigs, awa ! 


And see the waves sae sweetly glidei 


Ye're but a pack o' traitor louns, ^ 


Beneath the hazels spreading wide t 


Ye'U do nae good at a'. 


The moon it shines fu' clearly. 


I. 

UuR thrissles flourish'd fresh and fair, 


III. 
I was bred up at nae sic school. 


And bonnie bloom'd our roses ; 


My shepherd lad, to play the fool, 


But Whigs came like a frost in June, 


And a' the day to sit in dool. 


And wither'd a' our posies. 


And naebody to see me. 


II. 
(>ur ancient crown's fa'n in the dust — . 


IV. 

Ye sail get gowns and ribbons meet, 


Deil blin' them wi' the stoure o't ; 


Cauf-leather shoon upon your feet. 


And write their names in his black beuk, 


And in ray arms ye'se lie and s!eep, 


Wha gae the Whigs the power o't. 


And ye sail be my dearie. 


III. 
Our sad decay in Church and State 


V. 

If ye'll but stand to what ye've saii 


Surpasses my descriving • 


I'se gang wi' you, my shepherd lad, 


The Whigs came o'er us for & curse. 


And ye may rowe me in your plaid, 


And we hae done wi' thriving 


And I shall be your dearie. 


IV. 


VI. 


Grim vengeance lang ha's taen a nap, 


While waters wimple to the sea ; 


But we may see him wauken ; 


While day blinks in the lift sae hi« 


(?ude help the day when royal heads 


'Till clay-cauld death sail blin' my c. 


Are hunted like a maukin. 


Ye sail be my dearie. 


Awa Whigs, awa ! 


Ca' the ewes to the knowes, 


Awa Whigs, awa ! 


Ca' them whare the heather „.fows 


Ye're but a pack o' traitor louns, 


Ca' them whare the burnie >/v wes. 


Ye'll do nae gude lit a'. 


My bonnie dearie. 




"JOHN ANDERSON MY JOE; 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



2"!ft 



LXXXIII. 

MERRY HAE 1 BEEN TEETHIN' A HECKLE. 

Tune — " Lord Breadalhone' s March." 

[Part of this song ia old : Sir Harris Nicolas sayi it 
Ices not appear to be in the Museum : let him Vtok. 
tgain] 

I. 

MEURY hae I been te'ethin' a heckle, 

And merry hae I been shapin' a spoon; 
merry hae I been cloutin a kettle, 

And kissin' my Katie when a' was done. 
a' the lang day I ca' at my hammer, 

An' a' the lang day I whistle and sing, 
A' the lang night I cuddle my kimmer, 

An' a' the lang night as happy' s a king. 



Bitter in dool I lickit my winnins, 

0' marrying Bess to gie her a slave: 
Blest be the hour she cool'd in her linens, 

And blythe be the bird that sings on her grave. 
Come to my arms, my Katie, my Katie, 

An' come to my arms and kiss me again ! 
Drunken or sol-er, here's to thee, Katie ! 

And blest be the day I did it again. 



. LXXXIV. 
THE BRAES 0' BALLOCHMTLE. 

Tune — " The Braes o' Ballochmyle." 

(Mary AVhitefoord, eldest daughter of Sir John White- 
!^id, was; the heroine of this song : it vras written when 
tiat acciont family left their ancient inheritance. It is in 
ts Museum, with an air by Allan Masterton.] 

I. 

The Catrine woods were yellow seen, 

The flowers decay'd on Catrine lea, 
Kae lav'rock sang on'hillock green. 

But nature sicken'd on the e'e. 
Ihro' faded groves Maria sang, 

Hersel' in beauty's bloom the whiTe, 
^d ay the wild-wood echoes rang, 

Fareweel the Braes o' Ballochmyle ! 



Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers, 
Again ye'U flourish fresh and fair ; 

Te birdies dumb, in with'ring bowers, 
Again ye'U «harm the vocal air. 



But here, alas ! for me nae mair • 
Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile ; 

Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr, 
Fareweel, fareweel ! sweet Ballochmyle 



LXXXV. 

TO MART IN HEAVEN. 

Tune — '^ Death of Captain Cook." 

[This sublime and affecting Ode was composed by 
Burns in one of his fits of melancholy, on the anniversary 
of Highland Mary's death. All the day he had been 
thoughtful, and at evening he went out, threw himself 
down by the side of one of his corn-ricks, and with hii 
eyes fixed on " a bright, particular star," was found by 
his wife, who with difficulty brought him in from the 
chill midnight air. The song was already composed, and 
he had only to commit it to paper. It first appeared i» 
the Museum.] 



Thott ling'ring star, with less'ning ray, 

That lov'st to greet the early morn, 
Again thou usherest in the day 

My Mary from my soul was torn. 
Mary ! dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast 



That sacred hour can I forget, 

Can I forget the hallow' d grove, 
Where by the winding Ayr we met. 

To live one dav of parting love ! 
Eternity cannot efface 

Those records dear of transports past; 
Thy image at our last embrace , 

Ah ! little thought we 'twas our last ! 



Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbled shore, 

O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ning green 
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn, hoar, 

Twin'd am'rous round the raptur'd scene i- 
The flow'rs sprang wanton to be prest. 

The birds sang love on every spray — 
Till too, too soon, the glowing west 

Proclaim'd the speed of winged day. 



Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakea. 
And fondly broods with miser <'.are I 



240 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



Time but th' impression stronger makes, 
As streams their channels deeper wear. 

My Mary, dear departed shade I 
Where is thy place of blissful rest? 

Beest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st tho^i the groans that rend his breast? 



LXXXVI. 



EPPIE ADAIR. 

Tune — '^ My Eppie." 

["This song," says Sir Harris Nicolas, "which has 
been ascribed to Burns by some of his editors, is in the 
Musical Museum without any name," It is partly an 
old strain, corrected by Burns : he communicated it to the 
Museum.] 

I. 

An' ! my Eppie, 
My jewel, my Eppie ! 
Wha wadna be happy 

Wi' Eppie Adair? 
By love, and by beauty, 
By law, and by duty, 
I swear to be true to 

My Eppie Adair ! 

II. 

An' ! my Eppie, 
My jewel, my Eppie ! 
Wha wadna be happy 

Wi' Eppie Adair ? 
A' pleasure exile me. 
Dishonour defile me. 
If e'er I beguile thee, 

My Eppie Adair ! 



THE BATTLE OF S HEUIFF-MIJIR. 

Tune — " Cameronian Rant." 

(One Barclay, a dissenting clergyman in Edinburgh, 
wrote a rhyming dialogue between two rustics, on the 
Dattle of Sheriff-muir : Barns w;is in nowise pleased with 
the way in which the reverend rhymer handled the 
Highland clans, and wrote this modified and improved 
yersion.l 



" CAM ye here the fight to shun, 
Or herd the sheep wi' me, man ? 

Or were ye at the Sherra-muir, 
And did the battle see, man?'' 



I saw the battle, sair and tough, 
And reekin' red ran mony a sheugh. 
My heart, for fear, gaed sough for sough, 
To hear the thuds, and see the cluds, 
C clans frae woods, in tartan duds, 
Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, man. 



The red-coat lads, wi' black cockades. 

To meet them were na slaw, man ; 
They rush'd and push'd, and blude outgush'di 

And mony a bouk did fa', man : 
The great Argyll led on his files, 
I wat they glanc'd for twenty miles : 
They hough'd the clans like nine-pin kyles, 
They hack'd and hash'd, while broad-swordi 

clash'd. 
And thro' they dash'd, and hew'd, and smash'i, 
'Till fey men died awa, man. 

III. 
But had you seen the philibegs, 

And skyrin tartan trews, man ; 
When in the teeth they dar'd our Whigs 

And covfuant true blues, man ; 
In lines extenc^ed lang and large. 
When bayonets opposed the targe, 
And thousands hasicn'd to che charge, 
Wi' Highland wrath they frae the sheath, 
Drew blades o' death, 'till, out o' breath. 

They fled like frighted doos, man. 



" how deil, Tam, can that be true ? 

The chase gaed frae the north, man ; 
I saw myself, they did pursue 

The horsemen back to Forth, man; 
And at Dumblane, in my ain sight. 
They took the brig wi' a' their might. 
And straught to Stirling winged their flight; 
But, cursed lot ! the gates were shut ; 
And mony a liuntit, poor red-coat. 

For fear amaist did swarf, man '" 



My sister Kate cam up the gate 

Wi' crowdie unto me, man ; 
She swore she saw sojne rebels run 

Frae Perth unto Dundee, man : 
Their left-hand general had nae skill, 
The Angus lads h%,d nae good- will 
That day their neebors' blood to spill ; 
For fear, by foes, that they should lose 
Their cogs o' brose — they scar'd at blows. 

And so it goes, you see, man 



They've lost some gallant gentlemen, 
Amang the Highland clans, man ! 

I fear my Lord Panmure is slain, 
Or fallen in Whiggish hands, man : 

Now wad ye sing this double fight, 

Some fell for wrang, and some for right ; 

And mony bade the world. guid-night; 

Then ye may tell, how pell and mell. 

By red claymores, and muskets' knell, 

Wi' dying yell, the Tories fell, 
And Whigs to hell did flee, man. 



Lxxxvin. 

YOUNG JOCKEY. 

Tune — " Young Jockey." 

[With the exception of three or four lines, this song, 
though ranrkec in the Museum as an old song with 
B<iditi. ns, IS tne wurK of Burns. He often seems to have 
Bat do^vn to araonU or modify old verses, and found it 
aatjie ^o make verses wholly new.] 

I. 
fouNQ Jockey was the blythest lad 

In a' our town or here awa : 
Fu' blytlie he whistled at the gaud, 

Fu' lightly danced he in the ha'. 
He roosed my een, sae bonnie blue. 

He roos'd my waist sae genty sma'. 
And ay my heart came to my mou' 

When ne'er a body heard or saw. 



My Jockey toils upon the plain, 

Thro' wind and weet, thro' frost and snaw ; 
And o'er the lea I leuk fu' fain. 

When Jockey's dwsen hameward ca . 
An' ay the night comes round again, 

When in his arn:s he takes me a'. 
An' ay he vows he'll be my ain. 

As lang's he has a breath to draw. 



LXXXIX. 
WILLIE BREW'D. 

Tune — ^'■Willie brewed a peck o\ maut." 

[The scene of this song is Laggan, in Nithsdale, a 

wnall estate which Nicol bought by the advice of the 

poet. It vas composed in memory of the house-heating. 

' <V^ had SI. ih a joyous meeting," says Burns. " that 

16 



Masterton and I agreed, each in our own way, to cele- 
brate the business." The Willie who made the brows! 
was, therefore, William Nicol ; the Allan who composed 
the air, Allan Masterton ; and he who wrote this choiceB' 
of convivial songs, Robert Burns.] 



0, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut. 

And Rob and Allan came to see : 
Three blither hearts, that lee-lang night 
Ye wad na find in Christendie. 

We are na fou, we're no that fou, 
But just a drappie in our e'e ; 
The cock may craw, the day may daw 
And aye we'll taste the barley bree. 



Here are we met, three merry boys, 
Three merry boys, I trow, are we : 

And mony a night we've merry been, 
And mony mae we hope to bo t 



It is the moon — I ken her horn. 

That's blinkin in the lift sae hie ; 
She shines sae bright to wyle us hame. 

But, by my sooth, she'll wait a wee I 



Wha first shall rise to gang awa', 
A cuckold, coward loon is he I 
Wha last beside his chair shall fa'. 
He is the king amang us three ! 

We- are na fou, we're no that fou. 
But just a drappie in our e'e ; 
The cock may craw, the day may da-» 
And aye we'll taste the barley bree 



WHARE HAE YE BEEN. 

Tune — Killiecrankie." 

["This song," says Sir Harris Nicolas. •' .s in tl 
Museum without Burns's name." It was co."npose.l b^ 
Burns on the battle of Killiecrankie, and sent in his OWB 
hanawriting to Johnson: he puts it into the mouth of • 
Whig.] 



Whake hae ye been sae braw, lad? 

Whare hae ye been sae brankie, 0? 
0, whare hae ye been sae braw, lad ? 

Cam ye by Killiecrankie. O ? 



242 THE POETICAL WOKKS 


An' ye had been whare I hae been, 


the Charteris's and the better portion to the MaxwelU: 


Ye wad na been so cantie, ; 


the Johnstones afterwards came in for a share, and no^( 




the Scotts prevail.] 


An' ye had seen what I hae seen, 




On the braes o' Killiecrankie, 


I. 




The Thames flows proudly to the sea, 


11. 


Where royal cities stately stand; , 


] fought at land, I fought at sea ; 


But sweeter flows the Nith, to me. 


.At kame I fought my auntie, ; 


Where Comyns ance had high commaBf* 


But I met 1*e Devil an' Dundee, 


When shall I see that honour'd land, 


On the braes o' Killiecrankie, 


That winding stream I love so dear 1 


The bauld Pitcur fell in a furr, 


Must wayward Fortune's adverse hand 


An' Clavers got a clankie, ; 


For ever, ever keep me here ? 


Or I had fed on Athole gled. 




On the braes o' Killiecrankie, 0. 


11. 




How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales. 




Where spreading hawthorns gaily bloom) 
How sweetly wind thy sloping dales. 




XCI. 


" Where lambkins wanton thro' the broom ' 




Tho' wandering, now, must be my doom. 


I GAED A WAEFU' GATE YESTREEN. 


Far from thy bonnie banks and braes, 


Air — " The blue-eyed lass." 


May there my latest hours consume. 


[This Wue-eyed lass was Jean Jeffery, daughter to the 


Amang the friends of early days ! 


Bdnister of Lochmaben: she was then a rosy girl of 
leventeen, with winning manners and laughing blue eyes. 






She is now Mrs. Renwick, and lives in New York.] 




I. 


XCIII. 


I GAED a waefu' gate yestreen. 


MY HEART IS A-BREAKING, DEAR riTTl*.. 


A gate, I fear, I'll dearlie rue; 


Tune—" Tarn Glen." 


I gat my death frae twa sweet een. 




Twa lovely een o' bonnie blue. 


[Tarn Glen is the title of an old Scottish song, and o.dej 


air : of the former all that remains is a portion of thi 


'Twas not her golden ringlets bright ; 


chorus. Burns when he wrote it sent it to the Museam ? 


Her lips, like roses, wat wi' dew, 




Her heaving bosom, lily-white — 
It was her een sae bonnie blue. 


I. 

My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie ' 




Some counsel unto me come len', 


II. 


To anger them a' is a pity, 


She talk'd, shesmil'd, my heart she wyl'd; 


But what will I do wi' Tam Glen ? 


She charm'd my soul — I wist na how : 


II. 


■ And ay the stound, the deadly wound, 


I'm thinking wi' sic a braw fellow, 


Cam frae her een sae bonnie blue. 


In poortith I might make a fen' ; 


But spare to speak, and spare to speed; 


What care I in riches to wallow. 


She'll aiblins listen to my vow : 


If I maunna marry Tam Glen ? 


Should she refuse, I'll lay my daad 




To her twa een sae bonnie blue. 


III. 




There's Lowrie the laird o' Dumeller, 




" Gude day to you, brute !" he^comes len 






He brags and he blaws o' his siller. 


XCII. 


But when will he dance like Tam Glon? 


THE BANKS OF NITH 


IV. 


Tun*? — " Robie donna Gorach." 


My minnie does constantly deave me, 




And bids me beware o' young men- 


[The command which the Oomyns held on the Nith 




lirat lost to the Boug.asses : tlje Nithsdale power, on the 


They flatter, she says, to deceive me, 


iownfall of tb H .-sroud nam«, was div/ded ; part went to 


But wha caj think so o^Tam Glen T 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 243 


V. 

My daddie sayp, gin I'll forsake him, 


xcv. 


He'll gie me guid hunder maj-ks ten : 


SWEET CLOSES THE EVENING 


But. if it's ordain'd I maun take him, 




• wha will T get but Tarn Glen 2 


Tune — " Craigie-burn-wood." 




[This is one of severa. fine songs in honour ^ Jeat 


VI. 


Lorimer, of Kemmis-hall, Kirkmahoe, who <or soin* 


FsPireen at«the Valentine's dealing, 


time Jived on tlie l)anks of Craigie-burn, near Moffat. 


My heart t: my mou' gied a sten ; 


was composed in aid of the eloquence of a Mr. GL^ef p: s ■ 
who was in love with her : but it did not prevafl, Vv 


F ir thrice I drew ane without failing, 


she married an officer of the name of Whelpda e, li^fr. 


4 ad thrice it was written — Tarn G]en. 


witli him for a month or so : reasons arose on both sides 




which rendered separation necessary; she then took up 


VII. 


her residence in Dumfries, where she had many oppor 


The last Halloween I was waukin 


tunities of seeing the poet. Slie lived till lately.] 


My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken ; 


CHORUS. 


Sis likeness cam up the house staukin, 


Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie. 


A.n9 ♦ihe very grey breeks o' Tarn Glen ! 


And 0, to be lying beyond thee ; 




sweetly, soundly, weel may he sleep 


Gome counsel, dear Tittie ! don't tarry — 


That's laid in the bed beyond thee ! 


I'll gie you my bonnie black hen, 


I. 


Gif ye will advise me to marry 

The lad that I lo'e dearly. Tarn Glen. 


Sweet closes the evening on Craigie-burn-wood, 




And blithely awaukens the morrow; 




But the pride of the spring in the (jraigie-bmn 




wood 




Can yield to me nothing but sorrow. 


XCIV. 


II. 


*'KAE THE FRIENDS AM) LAND I LOVE. 


I see the spreading leaves and fit wers 


Air — ^^ Carron Side.''' 


I hear the wild birds singing ; 




But pleasure they hae nane for me. 


l^ijurns says, " I added t> e four last lines, by way of 


While care my heart is wringing. 


iving a turn to the theme of the poem, such as it is. ' 




The rest of the song is supposed to be from the same 


III. 


land : the lines are not to be found in earlier collections.] 






I canna tell, I maunna tell, 


I. 


I darena for your anger ; 


Frab the friends and land I love, 


But secret love will break my heart, 


Driv'n by fortune's felly spite. 


If I conceal it langer. 


Frae my best belov'd I rove. 




Never mair to taste delight ; 


IV. 


Never mair maun hope to find. 


I see thee gracefu', straight, and tall. 


Ease frae toil, relief frae care : 


I see thee sweet and bonnie ; 


When remembrance wracks the mind, 


But oh ! what will my torments be, 


Pleasures but unveil despair. 


If thou refuse thy Johnnie ! 


11. 

Brightest climes shall mirk appear. 


V. 

To see thee in anither's arms, 


Desert ilka blooming shore. 


In love to lie and languish. 


Till the Fates, nae mair severe. 


'Twad be my dead, that will be seen. 


Friendship, love, and peace restore ; 


My heart wad burst wi' anguish 


Till Revenge, wi' laurell'd head. 




Bring our banish'd hame again ; 


VI. 


And ilka loyal bonnie lad 


But, Jeanie, say thou wilt be mine, 


Oross the seas and win his ain. 


Say thou lo'es nane before me : 



244 THE POETICAL WORKS 


and a' my days o' life to come 


It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree; 


T'll gratefully adore thee. 


It's a' for the hiney he'll cherish the bee ; 


Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie. 


My laddie's sae meikle in luve wi' the siller. 


And 0, to be lying beyond thee ; 


He canna hae luve to spare for me. 


sweetly, soundly, weel may he sleep 




That's laid in the bed beyond thee ! 


II, 




Your proffer o' luve's an airl-penny, 




My tocher's the bargain ye wad buy ; 


XCVl. 


But an ye be frafty, I am cujinin', 


Sae ye wi' anither your fortune maun try. 


COCK UP YOUR BEAVER. 


Ye're like to the timmer o' yon rotten wood, 


Tune — " Cock up your heaver." 


Ye're like to the timmer o' yon rotten tree , 
Ye'll slip frae me like a knotless thread, 


[" Printed," says Sir Harris Nicolas, " in the Musical 


And ye'll crack your credit wi' mae nor m« 


Museum, but not with Burns's name." It is an old song, 




weed out and amended by the poet : all the last verse, 




gave the last line, is his; s«veral of the lines too of the 
first verse, have felt his amending hand : he communi- 






rated it to the Museum.] 




I. 


XOVlii. 


When first my brave Johnnie lad 

Came to this town, 
He had a blue bonnet 


. GANE IS THE DAY. 
Tune — " Gudewife count the lawin." 


That wanted the crown ; 


[Th» air as well as words of this song were furnisfciej 


But now he has gotten 


to tfaa Musei\m by Burns. " The chorus," he says, "' il 


A hat and a feather, — 


part of an old song."] 


Hey, brave Johnnie lad, 


I. 


Cock up your beaver ! 


Gane is the day, and mirk's the night, 




But we'll ne'er stray for fau't o' light, 


II. 


For ale and brandy's stars and moon. 


Cock up your beaver. 


And blude-red wine's the rising sun. 


And cock it fu' sprush, 


Then gudewife count the lawin, 


We'll over the border 


The lawin, the lawin ; 


And gie them a brusl^; 


Then gudewife count the lawin, 


There's somebody there 


And bring a coggie mair ! 


We'll teach better behaviour — 




Hey, brave Johnnie lad. 


II. 


Cock up your beaver ! 


There's wealth and ease for gentlemen, - 




, And simple folk maun fight and fen ; 




But here we're a' in ae accord. 






For ilka man that's drunk's a lord. 


XCVII. 




THEIKLE THINKS MY LUVE. 

•Tune — '^ 3Iy tocher's the jewel." 


III. 

My coggie is a haly pool. 

That heals the wounds o' care and dool ; 


ffhess verses were written by Burns for the Museum, 
uo an air by Oswald : but he wished them to be sung to 


And pleasure is a wanton trout. 

An' ye drink but deep ye'll find him ciufc 


a tune called " Lord Elcho's favourite," of which he 


Then gudewife count the lawin ; 


liras an admirer.] 


The lawin, the lawin, 


I. 


Then gudewife count the lawin, 


MEiKLE thinks my luve o' my beauty, 


And bring a coggie mair ! 


And meikle thinks my luve o' my kin ; 




But little thinks my luve I ken brawlie 






My tocher's the jewel has charms for him. 





OF ROBEKT BURNS. 



24S 



XCIX. 
THERE'LL NEVER BE PEACE. 

Time — " There are few gude fellows when Willie's 
awa." 

iTho bard was in one of his Jacobitical moods when 
ue wrote this song. The air is a well known one, called 
" There's few gude fellows when Willie's awa." But 
»f the old woi:ds none, it is supposed, are preserved.] 



% Dt yon castle wa', at the close of the day, 
I heard a man sing, though his head it was 

gray; 
A.ud as he was singing the tears down came. 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 
The church is in ruins, the state is in jars ; 
Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars ; 
We darena weel say't, though we ken wha's to 

blame, 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame ! 



My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword. 
And now I greet round their green beds in the 

yerd. 
It brak the sweet heart of my faithfu' auld 

dame — 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 
Now life is a burthen that bows me down, 
Since I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown ; 
But till my last moments my words are the 

same — tt 

There'll never be peace till Jamie comes haii»e ! 



HOW CAN I BE BLYTHE AND GLAD? 

Tune — "T'/ie bonnie lad that's far (m^." 

[This lame'tition was written, it is rail in allusion 
(0 the s' Jerina;s of Jean Armour, when hsr correspond- 
H!C» wi*h B'l 'H' was discovered by her iamily.] 



HOW can I be blythe anA glad, 
Or how can I gang brisV und braw, 

(Vhen'the bonnie lad that I lo'e best 
Is o'er the hills and f{>-r awa? 

When the bonnie lad t^at I lo'e best 
Is o'er the hills an-^ far awa. 



It's no the frosty winter -wind, 

It's nc tb* driving drift and snaw; 



But ay the tear comes in my e'e, 
To think on him that's far awa. 

But ay the tear comes in my e'e, 
To think on him that's far awa. 



My father pat me frae his door, 

My friends they hae disown'd me »', 

But I hae ane will tak' ipy party 
The bpnnie lad that's far awa. 

But I hae ane will tak' my part, 
The bonnie lad that's far awa. 



A pair o' gloves he gae to me, 

And silken snoods he gae me twa ; 

And I will wear them for his sake, 
The bonnie lad that's far awa. 

And I will wear them for his sake, 
The bonnie lad that's far awa 



weary Winter soon will pass, 

And spring will deed the birken shftw ; 

And my young babie will- be born, 
And he'll be hame that's far awa. 

And my young babie will be born, 
And he'll be hame that's far awa. 



I DO CONFESS THOU ART SAE FAIR. 

Tune — "I do confess thou art saefair." 

["I do think," says Burns, in allusion to this sonj,, 
" that I have improved the simplicity of the sentiment* 
by giving them a Scottish dress." The original song ii 
of great elegance and beauty : it was written by Sit 
Robert Aytoue secretary to Anne of Cenxark, Queea 
of James I.] 



I DO confess thou art sae fair, 

I wad been o'er the lugs in love, 
Had I na found the slightest prayer 

That lips could speak th;^ heart couFd mOT^ 
I do confess thee sweet, but find 

Thou art sae thriftless o' thy sweets. 
Thy favours are the silly wind. 

That kisses ilka thing it meets. 



See yonder rose-bud^ rich in dew, 
Amang its native briers sae coy ; 



246 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



How sune it tines its scent and hue 
When pou'd and worn a common toy I 

■^ic fate, ere lang, shall thee betide, 
Tho' thou may gaily bloom awhile ; 

•''et sune thou shalt be thrown aside 
Like ony common weed and vile. 



YON WILD MOSSY MOUNTAINS. 
Tune — " Ton wild mossy mountains." 

[ Tnis sons^ alludes to a part of my private histoiy, 
iviiich it is of no consequence to the world to know." 
These are the words of Burns : he sent the song to the 
.VTusical Museum; the heroine is supposed to be the 
' Niir-.-ve," who dwelt near the Lugar.] 



FoN wild mossy mountains sae lofty ajid wide, 
That nurse in their bosom the youth o' the 

Clyde, 
Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the 

heather to feed, 
And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes on 
his reed. 
Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the 

heather to feed, 
And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes 
on his reed. 

II. 
Not Gowrie's rich valleys, nor Forth's sunny 

shores, 
To me hae the charms o' yon wild, mossy 

moors ; 
F )T there, by a lanely and sequester'd stream. 
Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my 
dream. 
For thei''e, by a lanely and sequester'd stream, 
Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my 
dream. 



Ailing thae wild mountains shall still be my 

path, 
r' k .^tream foaming aowj its ain green, narrow 

strath ; 
For there, wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove, 
^'hile o'er us unheeded flee the swift hours o' 
love. 
For there wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove, 
While o'ei us unheeded flee the swift hours o' 



She is not the fairest, altho' she is fair ; 
0' nice education but sma' is her share ; 
Her parentage humble as humble can be ; 
But I lo'e the dear lassie because she lo'es me 

Her parentage humble as humble can be ; 

But I lo'e the dear lassie because she lo'el 
me. 

V. 

To beauty what man but maun yield him n 

prize, 
In her armour of glances, and blushes, ani 

sighs ? 
And when wit and refinement hae polish'd hei 

darts. 
They dazzle our een as they flee to our hearts. 
And when wit and refinement hae polish'd 

her darts. 
They dazzle our een, as they flee to our 
hearts. 



But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond spark- 
ling e"e. 
Has lustre outshining the diamond to me : 
And the heart beating love as I'm clasp'd in 

her arms, 
0, these are my lassie's all-conquering charms! 
And the heart beating love as I'm clasp'd in 

her arms, 
0, these are my lassie's all-copquering 



charms ! 



if IS NA, JEAN, THY BONNIE FACE 

Tune — " The Maid's Complaint." 

[Bums found this song in English attire, bestowe-! a 
Scottish dress upon it, and published it in the Museum 
together vrith the air by Oswald, which is one r'i Ii» 
best. I 



It is na, Jean, thy bonnie face. 

Nor shape that I admire, 
Altho' thy beauty and thy grace 

Might weel awake desire. 
Something in ilka part o' thee, 

To praise, <^ love, I find ; 
But dear as is thy form to me, 

Still dearer is thy mind. 



# OF ROBERT BURNS. 241 


II. 


III. , 


Nae mair ungen'rous wish I hae, 


. Lanely nights come on. 


Nor stronger in my bre&st, 


A' the house are sleeping. 


Than, if x canna mak thee sae, 


I think on my bonnie lad. 


At least to see thee blest. 


An' I blear my een wi' grcetin' ' 


Content am I, if heavetn shall give 


Ay waukin, &c. 


But happiness to thee : 




And as wi' thee I'd wish to live, 
For thee I i bear to die. 








CVI. 
.1 MURDER HATE. 




CIV. 


These verses are to be found in a volume whicn maf 


WHEN I THINK ON THE HAPPY DAYS. 


be alluded to without being named, in which many oi 
Burns's strains, some looser than these, are to be ^'ouad. 


[These yersea were in latter years expanded by Burns 


I. 


mto E song, for the collection of Thomson : the song wi'.l 
be found in its place : the variations are worthy of pre- 
eervatioE.J 


I MURDER hate by field or flood, 
Tho' glory's name may screen us : . 




In wars at hame I'll spend my blood. 


I. 

When I think on the happy days 


Life-giving wars of Venus. 


I spent wi' you, my dearie ; 


II. 


And now what lands between us lie, 


The deities that I adore 


How can I be but eerie ! 


Are social Peace and Plenty, 




I'm better pleas'd to make one more 


II. 

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours, 


Than be the death of twenty. 


As ye were wae and weary I 
It was na sae ye glinted by. 






When I was wi' my dearie. 






CVII. 




GUDE ALE COMES. 


cv. 


[ These verses are in the Museum : the * st two c 




old, the concluding one is by Burns.] 


WHAN I SLEEP I DREAM. 


1. 


[This presents another version of song LXV. Varia- 
tions are to a poet what chaiiges are in the thoughts of a 


GUDE ale comes, and gude ale gota, 
Gude ale gars me sell my hose, 
Sell my hose, and pawn my shocn, 


paint »T, and speak of fertility of sentiment in both.] 


I. 


Gude ale keeps my heart aboon 


Whan 1 sleep I dream. 




Whan I wauk I'm eerie, 


1 ».. 


Bleer 1 canna get, 


I had sax owsen in a pleugh, 


Foi thinkin' o' my dearie. 


They drew a' weel eneugh. 




I sell'd them a' just ane by ane ; 


II. 


Gude ale keeps my heart aboou. 


Lanely night comes on, 




A' the house are sleeping. 


III. 


1 think on the bonnie lad 


» Gude a.d hands me bare and busy, 


That has my heart a keeping. 


Gars me moop wi' the servant hizziw, 


Ay waukin 0, waukin ay and wearie, 


Stand i' the stool when I hae done. 


Sleep I canna get, for thinkin' o' my 


Gude ale keeps my heart aboon 


dearie. 


gude ale comea, &c. 



I 



248 THE POETICAL WORKS^^' 


CVIII. 


III. 


ROBIN SHURE IN HAIRST. 


Wi' linked hands, we took the sands 




A-down yon winding river ; 


[This is an old chaunt, oat of which Burns brushed 


And, oh ! that hour and brooriy bower, 


Bome Ijose expressions, added the third and fourth 


Can J. forg-<t it ever ? 


verses, and sent it to the Museum.] 


I> 

Robin shure in hairst, 
I shure wi' him, 






Fient a heuk had I, 




Yet I stack by him. 


ex. 


"• 


GUDEEN TO YOU, KIMMER. 


I gaed up to Dunse, 


[This song in other days was a controversial one, atul 


To warp a wab o' plaiden, 


contained so*me sarcastic allusions to Mother Rome ail4 


At his daddie's yett, 


her brood of seven sacraments, five of whom were lUe 


Wha met me but Robin. 


gitimate. Burns changed the meaning, and published hi 




altered version in the Museum.] 


III. 

Was na Robin bauld, 


I. 

GuDEEN to you, Kimmer, 


Tho' I was a cotter, 


And how do ye do ? 


Play'd me sic a trick, 


Hiccup, quo' Kimmer, 


And me the eller's dochter ? 


The better that I'm fou. 


Robin shure in hairst, &c. 


We're a' noddin, nid nid noddin. 


IV. 


Yfe're a' noddin, at our house at bamtt 


Robin promis'd me 


II- 


A' my winter vittle ; 


Kate sits i' the neuk. 


Fient haet he had but three 


Suppin hea broo ; 
Deil tak Kate 


Goose feathers and a whittle. 


Robin shure in hairst, &c. 


An' she be na noddin too ' 




We're a' noddin, &c. 




III. 




How's a' wi' you, Kimmer, 


CIX. 


And how do ye fare ? 


A pint o' the best o't. 


BONNIE PEG. 


And twa pints mair. 




We're a' noddin, &c. 


[A fourth frerse makes the moon a witness to the en- 




learments of these lovers; but that planet sees more in- 


IV. 


Uecreet matters than it is right to describe.] 




How's a' wi' you, Kimmer, 


I. 


And how do ye thrive ; 


As I came in by our gate end, 


How many bairns hae ye 1 


As day was waxin' weary, 


Quo' Kimmer, I hae five. 


wha came tripping down the street. 


We're a' noddin, &c. 


But Bonnie Peg my dearie ! 


V. 


• 

II. 


Are they a' Johnie's ? 


Her air sae sweet, and shape complete, 


Eh i atweel no : 


Wi' nae proportion wanting ; 


Twa o' them were gotten 


The Queen of Love did never move 


When Johnie was awa. 


Wi' motfon mair enchanting. 


We're a noddin, &c. 



OF KOBERT BURNS. 



U9 



^ats like milk, 

And dogs like broo , 
Lads like lasses weel, 

And lasses lads too. 
We're a noddiu &c 



AH, CHLORIS, SINCE IT MAY NA BE. 
Time — "Major Graham." 

[Sir Harris N lOlas found these lines on Chloris among 
(he papers of Bu'ns, and printed them in his late edition 
ft the poet's works.] 

I. 

Ah, Chloris, since it may na be. 
That thou of love wilt hear ; 

If from tiie lover thou maun flee. 
Yet let the friend be dear. 



Altho' I love my Chloris mair 
Than ever tongue could tell ; 

My passion I will ne'er declare, 
I'll say, I wish thee well. 



The' a' my daily care thou art, 
And a' my nightly dream, 

I'll hide the struggle in my heart, 
And say it is esteem. 



SAW YE MY DEARIE. 

Tune- 



[" Pahiighed in the Museum," says Sir Harris Nicolas, 
' wiftiGUt an7 name." Burns corrected some line.s in the 
Old song, which nad more wit, he said, than decency, 
ICQ added others, and sent his amended version to John* 

1. 

C SAT ye my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab ? 
saw ye my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab ? 
She's down in the yard, she's kissin' the laird, 
She winna come hame to her ain Jock Rab. 
come thy ways to me, my Eppie M'Nab I 
come thy ways to me, my Eppie M'Nab ! 
Whate'er thou hast done, be it late, be it soon, 
?bou's welcome again to thy ain Jock Rab. 



What says she, my dearie, mj- Eppie M'Nab ? 
What says she, my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab ? 
She lets thee to wit, that she has thee forgot, 
And for ever disowns thee, her ain Jock Rab. 
had I ne'er seen thee, my Eppie M'Nab ! 
had I ne'er seen thee, my Eppie M'Nib! 
As light as the air, and fause as thou's fair, 
Thou's broken the heart o' thy ain Jock Rab. 



cxni. 

WHA IS THAT AT MY BOWER-DOOR 

Tune — " Lass an I come near thee." 

[The " Auld man and the Widow," in Ramsay'a Jol 
lection is said, by Gilbert Burns, to have suggested thji 
801^ to his brother : it first appeared in the Museum.! 

I. 

Wha is that at my bower-door ? 

0, wha is it but Findlay ? 
Then gae your gate, ye'se nae be here t — 

Indeed, maun I, quo' Findlay. 
What mak ye sae like a thief? 

come and see, quo' Findlay ; 
Before the morn ye'U work mischief; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 

II. 

Gif I rise and let you in ? 

Let me in, quo' Findlay ; 
Ye'll keep me waukin wi' your din ; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 
In my bower if you should stay ? 

Let me stay, quo' Findlay , 
I fear ye'll bide till break o' day ; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 



Here this night if ye remain ; — 

I'll remain, quo' Findlay ; 
I dread ye'll learn the gate again , 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 
What may pass within this bower,— 

Let it pass, quo' Findlay ; 
Ye maun conceal till your last I our 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay ! 



CXIV. 

WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE. 

lune — " What can a young lassie do wi' an auld 



[in tha old strnin, which partly suggested this song, the 
Heroine threatens only to adorn her husband's brows: 
Burns proposoa a system of domestic annoyance to break 
' is heart j 



What can a young lassie, what shall a young 
lassie, 

What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man ? 
Bad luck on the pennie that tempted my minnie 

To sell her poor Jenny for siller an' Ian' ! 
Bad luck on the pennie that tempted my minnie 

To sell her poor Jenny for siller an' Ian' ! 



He's always compleenin' frae mornin' to e'enin'. 
He hosts and he hirples the weary day lang ; 

He's doyl't and he's dozin', his bluid it is frozen, 
0, dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man ! 

He's doyl't and he's dozin', his bluid it is frozen, 
0, dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man 1 



He hums and he hankers, he freta and he 
cankers, 

I never can please him, do a' that I can ; 
He's peevish and jealous of a' the young fellows : 

0, dool on the day I met wi' an auld man ! 
He's peevish and jealous of a' the young fellows: 

0, dool on the day I met wi' an auld man I 



My auld auntie Katie upon me takes pity, 
I'll do my endeavour to follow her plan ; 
I'll cross him, and wrack him, until I heart- 
break him. 
And then his auld brass will buy me a new 
pan. 
Ill croBS him and wrack him, until I heart- 
break him, 
Affii then his auld brass will buy me a new 
pan. 



THE BONNIE WEE THING. 
Tune — " Bonnie wee thing." 



["Composed," says the poet, "on my little idol 
charming, lovely Davies."] 



Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing, 

Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine, 
I wad wear thee in my bosom, 

Lest my jewel I should tine. 
Wishfully I look and languish 

In that bonnie face o' thine ; 
And my heart it stounds wi' anguish 

Lest my wee thing be na mine. 



Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty 

In ae constellation shine ; 
To adore thee is my duty. 

Goddess o' this soul o' mine ! 
Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing. 

Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine, 
I wad wear thee in my bosom. 

Lest my jewel I should tine ' 



CXVI. 

THE TITHER MORN. 

To a Highland Air. 

[" The tune of this song," says Burns, "is ongmtJl 
from the Highlands. I have heard a Gaelic song to it, 
which was not by any means a lady's song." "It 0<V 
curs," says Sir Harris Nicolas, " in the Museum, withcBl 
the name of Burns." It was sent in the poet's ' wn hand 
writing to Johnson, and is believed to be his con .position. 



The tither morn. 
When I forlorn, 

Aneath an oak sat moaning, 
I did na trow 
I'd see my Jo, 

Beside me, gain the gloaming 
But he sae trig, 
Lap o'er the rig, 

And dawtingly did cheer me. 
When I, what reck. 
Did least expec', 

To see my lad so near me. 



OP ROBERT BURNS. 25j 


II. 


Had we never lov'd sae kindly. 


His } onnet he, 


Had we never lov'd sae blindly. 


A thought ajee, 


Never met — or never parted, 


Cock'd sprush when first he clasp' d me; 


We had ne'er been broken hearted. 


And I, I wat, 




Wi' fainness grat, 


III. 


While in his grips he press'd me. 


Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest 


Peil tak' the war ! 


Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest 


1 late and air 


Thine be ilka joy and treasure, 


Hae wisL'd since Jock departed; 


Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure! 


But now as glad 


Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ; 


I'm wi' my lad, 


Ae farewell, alas ! for ever ! • 


As ■'liort syne broken-hearted. 


Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, 


II. 


Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee I 


Fu' aft at e'en 
Wi' dancing keen. 






When a' were blythe and merry, 




I car'd na by, 


CXVIII. 


Sae sad was I 


LOVELY DAVIES. 


In absence o' my dearie. 




But praise be blest, 


Tune — "Miss Muir." 


My mind's at rest, 


[Written for the Museum, in honour of the witty, toi 


I'm happy wi' my Johnny : 


handsome, the lovely, and unfortunate Miss Davie" ' 


At kirk and fair, 


I. 


I'se ay be there, 


HO.w shall I, unskilfu', try 


And he as canty's ony. ' 


The poet's occupation, 




The tunefu' powers, in happy hours. 
That whispers inspiration ? 






Even they maun dare an effort mair. 


CXVII. 


Than aught they ever gave us. 


AE FOND KISS. 


Or they rehearse, in equal verse. 




The charms o' lovely Davies. 


Tune—" Rory Ball's Port' 


Each eye it cheers, when she appears. 


[Believed to relate to the poet's parting with Clarinda. 


Like Phoebus in the morning, 


" These exquisitely affecting stanzas," says Scott, " con- 


When past the shower, and ev'ry flower 


Isin the essence of a thousand love-tales." They are in 
(he Museum.] 


The garden is adorning. 
As the wretch looks o'er Siberia's shoie, 


I. 


When winter-bound the wave is ; 


Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ; 


Sae droops our heart when we maun part 


^ Ae fareweel, and then for ever ! 


Frae charming lovely Davies. 


Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, 




Warring siglis and groans I'll wage thee. 


II. 


Who shall say that fortune grieves him 


Her smile's a gift; frae 'boon the lifty 


While the star of hope she leaves him ? 


That maks us mair than princes ; 


Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights pie ; 


A scepter'd hand, a king's command, 


Dark despair around benights me. 


Is in her darting glances : 




The man in arms, 'gainst female charmB, 


II. 


Even he her "willing slave is ; 


ril ne'er blame my partial fancy, 


He hugs his chain, and owns the rd««i 


Naething could resist my Nancy ; 


Of conquering, lovely Davies. 


But to see her, was to love her ; 


My muse to dream of such a theme. 


Love but her, and love for ever. — 


Her feeble pow'rs surrender 



252 THE POETICAL WORKS 


The eagle's gaze alone surveys 


cxx. 


The sun's meridiau splendour: 


NAEBODY. 


1 wad in vain essay the strain, 




The deed too daring brave is ! 


Ttme — " Naebody." 


I'll drap the lyre, and mute admire 


[Burns had built his house at Ellislacd, sowed bis fin 


The charms o' lovely Davies. 


crop, the woman he loved was at his side, and hope wa« 




high; no wonder that he indulged in this independeal 




strain.] 

I. 
I HAE a wife o' my ain — 


CXIX. 


THE WEARY FUND 0' TOW. 


I'll partake wi' naebody ; 




111 tak cuckold frae nane, 


Tune — " The weary Fund o' Tow." 


I'll gie cuckold to naebody. 


['This song," saj's Sir Harris Nicolas, "is in the 


I hae a penny to spend, 


Musical Museum ; but it is T.ot attributed to Burns. Mr. 


There — thanks to naebody ; 


A.llan Cunningham does not state upon what authority he 


I hae naething to lend. 


tias assigned it to Burns." The critical knight might 


I'll borrow frae naebody 


have, if he had pleased, stated similar objections to many 


SJings which he took without scruple from my edition, 




Inhere they were claimed for Burns, for the first time. 


II. 


tnd on good authority. I, however, as it happens, did 


I am maebody's lord — 


not claim the song wholly for the poet: I said "the 


I'll be slave to naebody ; 


idea of the song is old, and perhaps some of the wordj." 


I hae a guid braid sword. 


It was sent by Burns to the Museum, and in his own hand- 
writing.] 


I'll tak dunts frae naebody. 




I'll be merry and free, 


I. 


I'll be sad for naebody ; 


The weary pund, the weary pund, 


Naebody cares for me. 


The weary pund o' tow : 


I'll care for naebody. 


I think my wife will end her life 




Before she spin her tow. 
I bought my wife a stane o' lint 






As gude as e'er did grow ; 


CXXI. 


And a' that she has made o' that, 






0, FOR ANE-AND-TWENTY, TAM! 


Is ae poor pund o' tow. 






Tune—" The Moudiewon. ' 


II. 
There sat a bottle in a bole. 


[In his memoranda on this song in the Museum, Bu.ni 
says simply, "This song is mme. ' The air for a centurj 


Beyont the ingle low. 


before had to bear the burthen of rery ordinary words.! 


And ay she took the tither souk, 




To drouk the stowrie tow. 


CHORUS. 




An 0, for ane-and-twenty, Tam, 


III. 


An' hey, sweet ane-and-twenty, Tam, 


Quoth I, for shame, ye dirty dame, 


I'll learn my kin a rattlin' sang, 


• Gae spin your tap o' tow ! 


An I saw ane-and-twenty, Tam. 


She took the rock, and wi' a knock 




She brak it o'er my pow. 


I. 




Thet snool me sair, and baud me down, 


IV. 


And gar me look like bluntie, Tam ! 


At last her feet— I sang to see't— 


But three short years will soon wheel roun' 


Gaed foremost o'er the knowe ; 


And then comes ane-and-twenty, Tam. 


And >r I wad anither jad, 




IW wallop in a tow. 


II. 


The weary pund, the weary pund, 


A gleib o' Ian', a claut o' gear, 


The weary pund o' tow ! 


Was left me by my auntie, Tam , 


T think my wife will end her life 


At kith or kin I need na spier. 


Before sue spin her tow. 


An I saw ane-and-twenty, Tam, 



OF ROBEET BURNS. 25a 


III. 


cxxm. 


They'll hae me wed a wealthy coof, 




Tho' I mysel' hae plenty, Tarn ; 


MY COLLIER LADDJE. 


But hear'st thou, .addie — there's my loof— 


Tune—" The Collier Laddie." 


I'm thine at ane-and-twenty, Tarn. 




An 0, for ane-and-twenty, Tarn ! 


[The Collier Laddie was communicated bv Burns, airf 
in his handwriting, to the Museum : it is chiefly h.s ovi 


An hey, sweet ane-and-twenty, Tam ! 


composition, though coloured by an older strain.] 


Til learn mj kin a rattlin' sang, 




An I saw ane-and-twenty, Tam. 


I. 




Whebe live ye, my bonnie lass ? 




An' tell me what they ca' ye ; 
My nan^, she says, is Mistress Jean, 




CXXII. 


And I follow the Collier Laddie. 


KENMURE'S ON AND AW A. 


My name she says, is Mistress Jean. 




And I follow the Collier Laddie. 


Tune — " Kenmuris on and awa, Willie," 




[The second and third, and concluding verses of this 


II. 


Jacobite strain, were written by Burns : the whole was 


See you not yon hills 'and dales, 


Bent in his own handwriting to the Museum.] 


The sun shines on sae brawlie ! 


I. 


They a' are mine, and they shall be thine. 


Kbnmure's on and awa, Willie ! 


Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie. 


Kenmure's on and awa ! 


They a' are mine, and they shall be thine, 


And Kenmure's lord's the bravest lord, 


Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie 


That ever Galloway saw. 


III. 


II. 


Te shall gang in gay attire. 


Success to Kenmure's band, AVillie ! 


Weel buskit up sae gaudy ; 


Success to Kenmure's band ; 


And ane to wait on every hand, 




Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddiff 


There's no a heart that fears a Whig, 
That rides by Kenmoire's hand. 


And ane to wait on every hand, 
Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie 


III. 
Here's Kenmure's health in wine, Willie ' 


IV. 

Tho' ye had a' the sun shines on. 


Here's Kenmure's health in wine ; 


And the earth conceals sae lowly ; 


There ne'er was a coward o' Kenmure's blude. 


I wad turn my back on you and it a' 


Nor yet o' Gordon's line. 


And embrace my CoUipr Laddie. 


IV. 


I wad turn my back on yoi^ and it a' 


And embrace my Collier Laddie. 


Kenmure's lads are men, Willie ! 




Kenmure's lads are men; 


V. 


Their hearts and swords are metal true— 


I can win my five pennies a (k^j, 


And that their faes shall ken. 


And spen't at night fu' brawlie ; 




And make my bed in the Collier's Qi^-'t 


V. 


And lie down wi' my Collier LaddJi*. 


They'll live or die wi' fame, Willie ! 


And make my bed in the Collif r's neuK, 


They'll live or die wi' fame ; 


And lie down wi' my Collier Laddie. 


But so'in wi' sounding victorie, 




May Kenmure's lord come hame. 


VI. 




Luve for luve is the bargain for me, 


VI. 


Tho' the wee cot-house should haud me; 


Here's him that's far awa, Willie, 


And the world before me to win my breadj 


Here's him that's far awa ; 


And fair fa' my Collier Laddie. 


And here's the flower that I love best — 


And the world before me to win my bread 


The rose that's like the snaw ! 


And fair fa' my Collier Laddie. 



254 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



NITHSDALE'S -WELCOME HAME. 

[These verses were written by Burns for the Museum : 
flie Maxwells of Terreagles are the lineal descendants 
Bf t\e Earls of Nithsdale.] 

I. 

The noble Maxwells and their powers 

Are coming o'er the border, 
And they'll gae bigg Terreagle's towers, 

An' set them a' in order. 
And they declare Terreagles fair. 

For their abode they chuse it; 
There's no a heart in a' the land, 

But's lighter at the news o't. 



Tho' stars in skies may disappear, 

And angry tempests gather ; 
The happy hour may soon be near 

That brings us pleasant weather : 
The weary night o' care and grief 

May hae a joyful morrow ; 
So dawning day has brought relief— 

Fareweel our night o' sorrow ! 



AS 
Tunc 



WAS A-WAND'EING. 

•' Einn Meudial mo Mhealladh." 



[1 . e original song in the Gaelic language was trans- 
aUiu lor Burns by an Inverness-shire lady; he turned it 
pto .erse, and sent it to the Museum.] 

r. 

A-s I was a-wand'ring ae midsummer e'enin'. 

The pipers and youngsters were making their 
game; 
A mang them I spied my faithless fause lover, 

Which bled a' the wound o' my dolour again. 
Weel. since he has left me, may pleasure gae wi' 
him; 

I may be distress'd, but I winna coniplain; 
! flatter my fancy I may get anither, 

Mv beart it shall never be broken for ane. 



I could na get sleeping till dawin for greetin', 
The tears trickled down like the hail and the 
rain: 

Had I na got greetin', my heart wad a broken, 
FfT oh ! lave forsaken's a tormenting pain. 



Although he has left me for greed o' the siller 

I dinna envy him the gains he can win ; 
I rather wad bear a' the lade o' my sorrow 

Than ever hae acted sae faithless to him. 
Weel, since he has left me, may pleasure gM 
wi' him, 

I may be distress'd, but I winna couiplain ; 
I flatter my fancy I may get anither. 

My heart it shall never be broken for ane. 



CXXVI. 
BESS AND HER SPINNING-WHEEL. 

Tune — " The sweet lass that lo'es me." 

[There are several variations of this song, but the. 
neither affect the sentiment, nor afford matter for quota 
tion.] 

I. 

LEEZE me on my spinning-wheel, 
leeze me on the rock and reel ; 
Frae tap to tae that deeds me bien. 
And haps me fiel and warm at e'en! 
I'll set me down and sing and spin, 
While laigh descends the simmer sun. 
Blest wi' content, and milk and meal — 
leeze me on my spinning-wheel! 

On ilka hand the burnies trot. 
And meet below my theekit cot ; 
The scented birk and hawthorn white. 
Across the pool their arms unite. 
Alike to screen the birdie's nest, 
And little fishes' caller rest : 
The sun blinks kindly in the Mel', 
Where blithe I turn my spinning-whet 1 

III. 
On lofty aiks the cushats wail, 
And Echo cons the doolfu' tale , 
The lintwhites in the hazel braes, 
Delighted, rival ither's lays : 
The craik amang the clover hay, 
The paitrick whirrin o'er the ley. 
The swallow jinkin round my shiel, 
Amuse me at my spinning-wheel. 



Wi' sma' to sell, and less to buy, 
Aboon distress, below envy. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



2oi) 



wha wad leave this humble state, 
For a' the pride of a' the great ? 
Amid their flaring, idle toys, 
Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys, 
Can they the peace and pleasure feel 
<^f Bessy at her spinning-wheel ? 



LUVE WILL VENTURE IN. 

Tune—" The Posie." 

{"The Posie is my cojnposition," says Burns, in a let 
isi to Thon-ison. " The air was taken down from Mrs- 
Bp »'b voice." It was iirst printed in the Museum.] 

I. 

LTTVE will venture in 

Where it daurna weel be seen ; 
luve will venture in 

Where wisdom ance has been. 
But I will down yon river rove, 

Among the wood sae green — 
And a' to pu' a posie 

To my ain dear May. 

I II. . 

The primrose I will pu', 

The firstling o' the year, 
And I will pu' the pink. 

The emblem o' my dear. 
For she's the pink o' womankimt, 

And blooms without a peer— 
And a' to be a posie 

To my ain dear May. 

III. 
t'U pu' the budding rose, * 

When Phoebus peeps in view, 
For it's like a baumy kiss 
0' her sweet bonnie mou' ; 
* The hyacinth's for constancy, 
Wi' its unchanging blue — 
And a' to be a posie 
To my ain dear May. 

rv. 
The lily it is pure. 

And the lily it is fair. 
And in her lovely bosom 

I'll place the lily there ; 
The daisy's for simplicity, 

And unafi"ected air — 
And a' to be a posie 

To my ain dear May. 



The hawthorn I will pu' 

Wi' its locks o' siller guay, 
Where, like an aged man. 

It stands at break of day. 
But the songster's nest within the bai)l 

I winna tak away — 
And a' to be a posie 

To my ain dear May. 



The woodbine I will pu' 

When the e'ening star is near, 
And the diamond drops o' dew 

Shall be her e'en sae clear ; 
The violet's for modesty. 

Which weel she fa's to wear, 
And a' to be a posie 

To my ain dear May. 



I'll tie the posie round, 

Wi' the silken band o' luve. 
And I'll place it in her breast, 

And I'll swear by a' above. 
That to my latest draught of life 

The band shall ne'er remove. 
And this will be a posie 

To my ain dear May. 



CXXViII. 

COUNTRY LASSIE. 

Tune — " The Country Lass." 

[A manuscript copy before me, in the poet's nanflwri 
ting, presents two or three immaterial variations of tbii 
dramatic son/- | 

In simmer, when the hay was niawn. 

And corn wav'd green in ilka field, 
While claver blooms white o'er the lea, 

And roses blaw in ilka bield ; 
Blithe Bessie in the milking shiel. 

Says — I'll be wed, come o't what will ; • 
Out spak a dame in wrinkled eild — 

0' guid advisement comes nae in 



It's ye hae wooers mony ane, 

And, lassie, ye're but young ye ken ] 
Then wait a wee, and cannie wale, 

A routhie butt, a routhie ben : 



•^56 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



There's Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, 
Fu' is his barn, fu' is his byre ; 

Tak this frae me, my bonnie hen. 
It's plenty beets the luver's fire 



For Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, 

I dinna care a single flie ; 
He lo'es sae weel his craps and kye, 

He has nae luve to spare for me : 
But blithe's the blink o' Robie's e'e, 

And weel I wat he lo'es me dear : 
Ae blink o' him I wad nae gie 

For Buskie-glen and a' his gear. 

IV. 

thoughtless lassie, life's a faught ; 

The canniest gate, the strife is sair ; 
But ay fu' han't is fechtin -best, 

An hungry care's an unco care: 
But some will spend, and some will spare, 

An' wilfu' folk maun hae their will ; 
Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair, 

Keep mind that ye maun drink the yill. 

V. 

0, gear will buy me rigs o' land, 

And gear will buy me sheep and kye ; 
But the tender heart o' leesome luve, 

The gowd and siller canna buy ; 
We may be poor — Robie and I, 

Light is the burden luve lays on; 
Content and luve brings peace and joy — 

What mai»' hae queens upon a throne ? 



OXXIX. 
FAIR ELIZA. 

A Gaelic Air. 



[The name of the heroine of this song was at first Ra- 
kina : but Johnson, the publisher, alarmed at admitting 
•OTiiething new into verse, caused Eliza to be substituted ; 
vlr''!\ was a positive fraud; fot Rabina was a real lady, 
tt- I jv6»'y one, and tliza one of air.] 



TuKN again, thou fair Eliza, 

Ae kind blink before we part, 
Rue on thy despairing lover ! 

Canst thou break his faithfu' heart ? 
Turn again, thou fair .Eliza; 

If to love thy heart denies, 
For pity hide the cruel sentence 

Under friendship's kind disguise! 



Thee, dear maid, hae I offended ? 

The offence is loving tliee : 
Canst thou wreck his peace for ever, 

Wha for time wad gladly die ? 
While the life beats in my bosom, 

Thou shalt mix in ilka throe ; 
Turn again, thou lovely maiden. 

Ae sweet smile on me bestow 

III. 
Not the bee upon the blossom, 

In the pride o' sunny noon ; 
Not the little sporting fairy. 

All beneath the simmer moon ; 
Not the poet, in the moment 

Fancy lightens in his e'e. 
Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture, 

That thy presence gies to me. 



cxxx. 

YE JACOBITES BY NAME. 

Tune — " Ye Jacobites hy name." 

[" Ye Jacobites by name," appeared for the first tim 
in the Museum: it was sent in the handwriting of Bumi.] 



Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear, give an ear 
Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear ; 
Ye Jacobites by name. 

Your fautes I will proclaim, 
Your doctrities I maui blame- 
You shall hear. 



What is right, and what is wrar g, by the law, by 
the law ? 
AVhat is right and what is wring, by the law ' 
What is right and what is wrang ? 
A short sword, and a lanjr, 
A weak arm, and a Strang 
For to draw 



What makes heroic strife, fam'd afar, fam'd 
afar? 
What makes heroic strife, fam'd afar f 
What makes heroic sti-ife ? 
To whet th' assassin's knife. 
Or hunt a parent's life 
Wi' bluidie war. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



257 



Taen let your schemes alone, in the state, in 
the state ; 
Then let your schemes alone in the state ; 
Then let your schemes alone. 
Adore the rising sun, 
And leave a man undone 
To his fate. 



THE BANKS OF BOON. 

[fikst teksion.] 

[ Vn Ay §hire legend aayg the heroine of this affecting 
loiig wa« Miss Kenned}', of Dalgavrock, a young crea- 
ture, bea itiful and accomplished, who fell a victim to 
SOT love for her kinsman, McDoual, of Logan.] 



Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Doon, 
How can ye bloom sae fair ; 

flow can ye chant, ye little birds, 
And I sap fu' o' care ! 



Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird. 

That sings upon the bough ; 
Thou minds me o' the happy days 

When my fause love was true. 

III. 
Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird, 

That sings beside thy mate ; 
For sae I sat, and sae I sang, 

And wist na o' my fate. 



/^ft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, 
To see the woodbine twine, 

knd ilka bird sang o' its love ; 
And sae did T o' mine. 



Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 
Frae aff its thorny tree ; 

And my fause luver staw the rose. 
But left the thorn wi' me. 



CXXXII. 
THE BANKS 0' DOON. 

[second VERSION.] 

Tune — "Caledonian Hunfs Delight." 
[Burns injured somewhat the simplicity of the song by 
adapting it to a new air, accidentally composed by aa 
amateur who was directed, if he desired to create a Scot- 
tish air, to keep his fingers to the black keys of the harp, 
sichord and preserve rhythm.] 



Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, 

How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ; 
How can ye chant, ye little birds, 

And I sae weary, fu' o' care ! 
Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, 

That wantons thro' the flowering thorn • 
Thou minds me o' departed joys. 

Departed — never to return ! 



Aft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, 

T(5 see the rose and woodbine twine ; 
And ilka bird sang o' its luve. 

And fondly sae did I o' mine. 
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 

Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree ; 
And my fause luver stole my rose, 

But, ah ! he left the thorn wi' me. 



WILLIE WASTLE. 

Tune — "The eight men of iloidart." 

[The person who is raised to the disagreeable elevatioi 
of heroine of this song, was, it is said, a farmer's wife of 
the old school of domestic care and uncleanness, wh« 
lived nigh the poet, at Ellisland.] 

I. 

Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed, 

The spot they call'd it Linkum-doddie, 

Willie was a wabster guid, 

Cou'd stown.a clue wi' onie bodie ; 

He had a wife was dour and din, 

Tinkler Madgie was her mither; 
Sic a wife as Willie had, 

1 wad nae gie a button for her 



She has an e'e — she has but ane, 
The cat has twa the very colour : 



858 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



Fire rusty teeth, forbye a stamp, 
A clapper-tongue wad deave a miller : 

A whiskin' beard about her mou'. 
Her nose and chin they threaten ither — 

Sic a wife as Willie had, 
I vad nae gie a button for her. 



She's bow hcugh'd, she's hem shinn'd 

A limpin' leg a hand-breed shorter ; 
She's twisted right, she's twisted left, 

To balance fair in ilka quarter : 
She has a hump upon her breast, 

The twin o' that upon her shouther— 
Sic a wife as Willie had, 

I wad nae gie a button for her. 



Auld baudrans by the ingle sits, 

An' wi' her loof her face a-washin' ; 
But Willie's wife is nae sae trig. 

She dights her grunzie wi' a hushion. 
Her walie nieves like midden-creels, 

Her face wad fyle the Logan-Water — 
Sic a wife as Willie had, 

I wad nae gie a button for her. 



CXXXIV. 
LADY MARY ANN. 

Tune — " Craigtown's growing." 

[The poet sent this sung to the Museum, in his own 
Handwriting : yet part of it is believed to be old ; how 
Riu "M cannot be well known, with such skill has he made 
Wn interpolations and changes.] • 



0, Lady Mary Ann 

Looks o'er the castle wa', 
She saw three bonnie boys 

Playing at the ba' ; 
The youngest he was 

The flower amang them a 
My bonnie laddie's young 

But he's growin' yet. 



father ! father ! 

An' ye think it fit. 
We'll send him a year 

To th« college yet : 



We'll sew a green ribbon 
Roimd about his hat, 

And that will let them ken 
He's to marry yet. 



Lady Mary Ann 

Was a flower i' the dew, 
Sweet was its smell, 

And bonnie was its hue ; 
And the langer it blossom'd 

The sweeter it grew ; 
For the lily in the bud 

Will be bonnier yet. 

IV. 

Young Charlie Cochran 

Was the sprout of an aik ; 
Bonnie and bloomin' 

And straught was its make ; 
The sun took delight 

To shine for its sake, 
And it will be the brag 

0' the forest yet. 



The simmer is gane, 

When the leayes they were greet 
And the days are awa, 

That we hae seen ; 
But far better days 

T trust will come again. 
For my bonnie laddie's young, 

But he's growin' yet. 



SUCH A PARCEL OF ROGUES IN A NATION 

Tune. — "u4 parcel of rogues in a nation." 

[This song was written by Burns in a moment m 
honest indignation at the northern scoundrels who sold ti 
those of the south the independence of Scotland, at thi 
time of the Ui.ion.1 



Faeeweel to a' our Scottish fame, 
Fareweel our ancient glory, 

Fareweel eyen to the Scottish name, 
Sae fam'd in martial story. 

Now Sark rins o'er the Solway sands, 
And Tweed rins to the ocean. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



25s 



To mark ■where England's province stands- 
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation. 



What force or guile could not subdue, 

Thro' many warlike ages, 
Is wrought now by a coward few 

For hireling traitor's wages. 
1 he English steel we could disdain ; 

Secure in valour's station ; 
But English gold has been our bane — 

Such a parcel of rogues in' a nation. 



would, or I had seen the day 
That treason thus could sell us, 

My auld gray head had lien in clay, 
Wi' Bruce and loyal Wallace ! 

But pith and power, till my last hour, 
I'll mak' this declaration ; 

We're bought and sold for English gold- 
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation. 



CXXXVI. 

THE CARLE OF KELLYBURN BRAES. 

Tune — '■' Kelly burn Braes." 

[Of this song: Mrs Burns said to Cromek, when running 
ler finger over the hmg list of lyrics which her husband 
fad written or amended for the Museum, "Robert gae 
ftiis one a terrible brushing." A considerable portion of 
the olQ still remains.] 



rHERB lived a carle on Kellyburn braes, 

(Hay, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), 
(Ind he had a wife was the plague o' his days ; 
And th,e thyme it is wither' d, and rue is in 
prime. 

II. 
jl 8 day as the carle gaed up the lang glen, 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme). 
He met wi' the devil ; says, " How do yow fen ?" 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in 
prime. 

Ill 
'♦ r 76 got a bad wife, sir ; that's a' my complaint; 

CHey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), 
""or, saving your presence, to her ye're a saint; 
And the thyiae it is wither'd, and rue is in 
prin e / 



"It's neither your stot nor your staig I shal 
crave, 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme). 
But gie me your wife, man, for her I must have, 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in 
prime." 

V. 

"0 welcome, most, kindly," the blythe .ark 
said, 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), 
" But if ye can match her, ye're waur nor ye're 
ca'd. 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in 
prime." 

The devil has got the auld wife on his back ; 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), 
And, like a poor pedlar, he's carried his pack ; 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in 
prime. 

VII. 

He's carried her hame to his ain hatllan-door , 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 

Syne bade her gae in, for a b — h and a w — ej 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is iik 
prime. 

VIII. 

Then straight he makes fifty, the pick o' hia 
band, 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme). 
Turn out on her guard in the clap of a hand ; 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in 
prime. 

IX. 

The carlin gaed thro' them like ony wud Nea^ 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thy Tie), 
Whate'er she gat hands on cam near her nat 
mair ; 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in 
prime. ' 

x. 

A reekit wee devil looks over the wa' ; 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), 
" 0, help, master, help, or she'll ruin us a', 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is id 
prime." 

XI. 

The devil he swore by the edge o' his knife, 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thymej. 



fc60 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



He pitied the man that was tied to a wife ; 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in 
prime. 



The devil he swore by the kirk-'and the bell, 
(Uej, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), 

He was not in wedlock, thank heav'n, but in hell; 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in 
prime. 



Then Satan has travelled again wi' his pack ; 

(Hey, and the rue grow* bonnie wi' thyme), 
4nd to her auld husband he's carried her back: 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in 
prime. 



" I hae been a devil the feck o' my life ; 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), 
But ne'er was in hell, till I met wi' a wife ; 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in 
prime." 



JOCKEY'S TA'EN THE PARTING KISS. 

Tune — " Jockey's tcCcn the parting kiss." 

[Burns, when he sent this song to the Museum, said 
lothing of its origin: and he is silent about it in his 
Jitmoranda.] 

I. 

Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss. 

O'er the mountains he is gane ; 
And with him is a' my bliss. 

Nought but griefs with me remain. 
Spare my luve, ye winds that blaw. 

Flashy sleets and beating rain ! 
Spare my luve, thou feathery snaw, 

Drifting o'er the frozen plain. 



V^'Tien the shades of evening creep 

O'er the day's fair, gladsome e'e, 
Sound and safely may he sleep. 

Sweetly blithe his waukening be I 
He will think on her he loves. 

Fondly he'll repeat her name ; 
F Dr where'er he distant roves, 

Jockey's heart is still at hame. 



cxxxviri. 
LADY ONLIE. 

Tune — " The Ruffian's Rant." 

[Communicated to the Museum in the handwniing (I 
Burns : part, but not much, is believed to be old.] 

I. 

A' THE lads o' Thornie-bank, 

When they gae to the shore o' Bucky, 
They'll step in an' tak' a pint 
Wi' Lady Onlie, honest Lucky ! 
Lady Onlie, honest Lucky ! 

Brews good ale at shore o' Bucky ; 
I wish her sale for her gude ale. 
The best on a' the shore o' Bucky, 

II. 

Her house sae Men, her curch sae clean, 

I wat she is a dainty chucky ; 

And cheerlie blinks the ingle-gleed 

Of Lady Onlie, honest Lucky ! 

Lady Onlie, honest Lucky, 

Brews good ale at shore o' BucEy - 
I wish her sale for her gude ale. 
The best on a' the shore o' Bucky 



CXXXIX. 
THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT 

Tune — " Captain O'Kean." 

[" Composed," says Burns to M'Murdo, "at thedeeir* 
of a friend who had an equal enthusiasm for the air ariij 
the subject." The friend alluded to is supposed to be 
Robert Cleghorn : he loved the air much, and he wai 
much of a Jacobite.] 

I. 

The small birds rejoice in the green leaves re- 
turning, 
The murmuring streamlet winds 'clear thro' 
the vale ; 
The hawthorn trees blow in the Acw of the 
morning. 
And wild scatter'd cowslips bedeck the green 
dale: 
But what can give pleasure, or what can seem 
fair. 
While the lingering moments are number'd 
by care ? 
No flow'rs gaily springing, nor birds sweetlj 
singing. 
Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despaiv 



OF KOBERT BURNS 



!i6J 



The deed that I dared, could it merit their malice, 

A king and a father to place on his throne ? 
His right are these hills, and his right are these 
valleys, 
Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can 
find none ; 
But 'tis not my sufferings thus wretched, for- 
lorn; 
My brave gallant friends ! 'tis your ruin I 
mourn ; 
Your deeds proved so loyal in hot-bloody trial — 
Alas ! I can make you no sweeter return ! 



SONGOFDEATH. 

Air — " Oran an Aoig." 

l" I have just finished the following song," says Burns 
to Mrs. Dunlop, "which to a lady, the descendant of 
Wallace, and herself the mother of several soldiers, 
iveeds neither preface nor apology."] 
Scene — A field of battle. Time of the day, evening. The 

wounded and dying of the victorious army 

to join in the following song : 



Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and 
ye skies, 
Now gay with the bright setting sun ; 
Farewell loves and friendships, ye dear tender 
ties — 
Our race of existence is run 1 



Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy 
foe! 

Go frighten the coward and slave ; 
Uo, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant ! but know, 

No terrors hast thou to the brave ! 



Thou strik'st the dull peasant — he sinks in the 
dark, 

Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name ; 
Thou strik'st the young hero — a glorious mark! 

He falls in the blaze of his fame ! 



h the field of proud honour — our swords in our 
hands, 

Our king and our country to save — 
Vhile victory shines on life's last ebbing sands, 

Oh' vhr vould not die with the brave ' 



FLOW GENTLY, SWEET AFTON. 

Tune — "Afton Water." 

[The scenes on Afton Water are beautiful, and th« 
poet felt them, as well as the generous kindness of hU 
earliest patroness, Mrs. General Stewart, of Aftoa-ic dg«, 
when he wrote this sweet pastoral.] 

I. 
Flow gently, sweet Afton! among thy green 

braes. 
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise ; 
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream — 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 



Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds thro' the 

glen; 
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den ; 
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming for- 

bear — 
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair, 

III. 
How lofty, sweet Afton ! thy neighbouring hillt, 
Far mark'd with the courses of clear, winding 

rills ; 
There daily I wander as noon rises high, 
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. 

IV. 

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, 
Where wild in the woodlands the primiosea 

blow! 
There, oft as mild evening weeps over the lea. 
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. 

V. 

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides. 
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides j 
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave. 
As gathering sweet flow'rets she stems thy clcas 
wave. 



Flow gently, sweet Afton! among thy 

braes. 
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays ! 
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream — 
Flow gently, sweet Afton! disturb not he* 



262 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



THE SRliLIKG SPRING. 

Tune — " The Bonnie Bell." 

[' Bonnie Bell," was first printed in the Museum : who 
,he heroine was the poet has neglected to Cell us, and it 

s a pity ] 

I. 

IfaE smiling Spring comes in rejoicing, 

And surly Winter grimly flies ; 
Now crystal clear are the falling waters. 

And bonnie blue are the sunny skies ; 
Fresh o'er the mountains breaks forth the 
morning, 

The ev'ning gilds the ocean's swell ; 
All creatures joy in the sun's returning, 

And 1 rejoice in my bonnie Sell. 



The flowery Spring leads sunny Siimmer, 

And yellow Autumn pre^Goa near. 
Then in his turn comes gloomy Winter, 

Till smiling Spring again appear. 
Thus Seasons dancing, life advancing. 

Old Time and Nature their changes tell, 
But never ranging, still unchanging, 

T adore my bonnie Bell. 



THE CARLES OF DYSART. 

Tune — " Hey ca' thro'." 

[Communicated to the Museum by Burns in his own 
aBC.ivriting ; part of it is his composition, and some be- 

iere the whole.] 

I 

I. 
I 

Ur wi' the carles o' Dysart, 

And the lads' o' Buckhaven, 
And the kimmers o' Largo, 
And the lasses o' Leven. 

Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro', 

For we hae mickle ado ; 
Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro'. 
For we hae mickle ado. 



II. 



We hae tales to tell, • 

And we hae saugs to sing ; 

We hae pennies to spend, 
And we hae pints to bring. 



We'll live a' our days, 

And them that come behin', 
Let them do the like. 

And spend the gear they win, 
Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro', 

For we hae mickle ado, 
Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro', 
For we hae mickle ado. 



CXLIV. 

THE GALLANT WEAVER. 

Tune — The Weavers' March." 

[Sent by the poet to the Museum. Neither tradiuci 
nor criticism has noticed it, iiut the song is popui»t 
among the looms, in the west of Scotland] 

I. 
Where Cart rins rowin to the sea, 
By mony a flow'r and spreading tree, 
There lives a lad, the lad for me, 

He is a gallant weaver. 
Oh, I had wooers aught or nine. 
They gied me i-ings and ribbons fine , 
And I was fear'd my heart would tine, 

And I gied it to the weaver. 

/ 

II. 

My daddie sign'd my tocher-band. 

To gie the lad that has the land ; 

But to my heart I'll add my hand, 

And gie it to the weaver. 
While birds rejoice in leafy bowers. 
While bees delight in op'ning flowers 
While corn grows green in simmer shower\ 

I'll love my gallant weaver. 



CXLV. 

THE BAIRNS GAT OU'j' 

Tune — '.' The deuks dang o'er my daddie.** 

[Burns found some of the sentiments and a few ol iui 
words of this song in a strain, rather rough and homespun 
of Scotland's elder day. He communicated it to the Mk 
Bsura.] 

I. 

The bairns gat out wi' an unco shout. 
The deuks dang o'er my daddie, ' 



OF KOBEKT BURNS. • 261 


The fien' -ma-care, quo' the feirrie auld wife, 


CXLVII. 


He was but a paidlin body, ! 


He paidles out, an' he paidles in, 


THE EXCISEMAN. 


An' he paidles late an' early, ! 
This seven lang years I hae lien by his side, 
An' he is but a fusionless carlie, ! 


Tune — The Deil emn' fiddling through the tovm* 

[Composed and sung l>y the poet at a festive meatinr o 
the excisemen of the Dumfries district.] 


II. 
'1, haud yoTir tongue, my feirrie auld wife. 


I. 

The deil cam' fiddling thrv-*gh the town. 


0, haud your tongue, now Nansie, 1 
I've seen the day, and sae hae ye, . 


And danced awa wi' the Exciseman, 
And ilka wife cries — " Auld Mahoun, 


Ye wadna been sae donsie, ! 


I wish you luck o' the prize, man !' 


I've seen the day ye butter' d my brose, . 
And cuddled me late and e&rly, I 


The deil's awa, the deil's awa, 

The deil's awa wi' the Exciseman ; 


But dowua do's come o'er me now. 


He's danc'd awa, he's danc'd awa, 


And, oh! I feel it sairly, 0! 


He's danc'd awa wi' the Excisemap' 




II. 

We'll mak our maut, we'll brew our drink, 
We'll dance, and sing, and rejoice, man ; 






And mony braw thanks to the meikle black dei, 


CXLVI. 


That danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman. 


SHE'S FAIR AND FAUSE. 


III. 


Tune — "She's fair and fause." 

[One of the happiest as well as the most sarcastic of 
the songs of the North : tlie air is almost as happy as the 

<|rord8.1 


There's threesome reels, there's foursome reel* 
There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man ; 

But the ae best dance e'er cam to the land 
Was — the deil's awa wi' the Exciseman. 


The deil's awa, the deil's awa, 


I. 


The deil's awa wi' the Exciseman : 


She's fair and fause that causes my smart, 


He's danc'd awa, he's danc'd awa, 


I lo'ed her meikle and lang ; 


He's danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman. 


She's broken her vow, she's broken my heart, 




And I may e'en gae hang. 




• A coof cam in wi' routh o' gear, 
And I hae tint my dearest dear ; 






But woman is but warld's gear, 




Sae let the bonnie lass gang. 


CXLVIIT. 




THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS 


Whae'er ye be that woman love, 


Tune — " Lass of Inverness." 


To this be never blind, 


[As Bums passed slowly over the moor of Culloden 


Nae ferlie 'tis tho' fijkle she prove, 

A woman has't by kind. 
woman, lovely woman fair ! 


in one of his Highland tours, the lament of the Lass of In 
verness, it is said, rose on his fancy : the first four liji» 
are partly old.] 


A.n angel form's fa'n to thy share, 

TTwad been o'er meikle to gien thee mair — 


r. 

The lovely lass o' Inverness, 


I mean an angel mind. 


Nae joy nor pleasure can she see; 
For e'en and morn, she cries, alas ! 




And ay the saut tear Win's her e'e : 




Drumossie moor — Drumossie day— 




A waefu' day it was to me ! 




For there I lost my father dear, 




My father dear, and brethren three. 



264 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



Their -winding sheet the bluidy clay, 

Their grayes are growing green to see: 
A.nd by them lies the dearest lad 

That ever blest a woman's e'e ! 
Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord, 

A bluidy man I trow thou be ; 
Poi mony a heart thou hast made sair, 

Ihat ne'er did wrong to thine or thee. 



A RED, RED ROSE. 
Tune — Graham's Strathspey." 

[Some editors have pleased themselves with tracing 
ttie s.'sntiments of this song in certain street ballads : it 
resembles them as much as a sour sloe resembles a drop- 
ripe damson.] 

I. 
0, MY luve's like a red, red rose. 
That's newly sprung in June : 
0, my luve's like themelodie, 
That's sweetly play'd in tune. 



As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, 

So deep in luve am I : 
And I will luve thee still, my dear, 

'Till a' the seas gang dry. 



'Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear. 
And the rocks melt wi' the sun : 

I will luve thee still, my dear. 
While the sands o' life shall run. 



A.nd fare thee weel, my only luve ! 

And fare theeweel a-while ! 
And I will come again, my luve, 

Tho' it were ten thousand mile, 



LOUIS, T>HAT RECK I BY THEE. 

Tune — '■^ Louis, what reck I by thee." 

^The Jeannie of this very short, but very clever song, 
« Mrs. Burns. Her name has no chance of passing from 
ke earth if impassioned verse can preserve it.] 

I. 

Louis, what reck I by thee. 
Or Geordie on Ms ocean ? 



Dyvor, beggar loons to me — 
I reign in Jeannie's bosom. 



Let her crown my love her law, 
And in her breast enthrone mc 

Kings and nations — swith, awa I 
Reif randies, I disown ye I 



HAD I THE WYTE. 

Tune — *• Had I the wyte she bade me* 

[Burns in evoking this song out of the old verses di< 
not cast wholly out the spirit of ancient license in whtoli 
our minstrels indulged. He sent it to the Museum.] 



Had I the wyte, had I the wyte, 

Had I the wyte she bade me ; 
She watch'd me by the hie-gate side, 

And up the loan she shaw'd me ; 
And when I wadna venture in, 

A coward loon she ca'd me ; 
Had kirk and state been in the gate, 

I lighted when she bade me 



Sae craftilie she took me ben. 

And bade me make nae clatter ; 
" For our ramgunshoch glum gudeman 

Is out and owre the water:" 
Whae'er shall say I wanted grace 

When I did kiss and dawte her, 
Let him be planted in my place. 

Syne say I was the fautor. 



Could I for shame, could I for shame, 

Could I for shame refused her ? 
And wadna manhood been to blame, 

Had I unkindly used her ? 
He claw'd her wi' the rippiin-kamc 

And blue and bluidy bruised her ; 
When sic a husband was frae hame, 

What wife but had excused her ? 



I dighted' ay her een sae blue. 
And bann'd the cruel randy ; 

And weel I wat her willing mou', 
Was e'en like sugar -candy. 



OF ROBEKT BURNS. 2ba 


A gloamin-shot it was f wot, 


But now wi' sighs and starting tears, 


I lighted on the Monday ; 


He strays amang the woods and briers; 


But I cam through the Tysday's dew, 


Or in the glens and rocky caves 


To wanton Willie's brandy. 


His sad complaining dowie raves. 

II. 

I wha sae late did range and rove. 




CLII. 


And chang'd with every moon my love, 


COMING THROUGH THE RYE. 


I little thought the time was near, 


Tune — " Coming through the rye." 


Repentance I should buy sae dear : 
The slighted maids my torment see, 


[The poet in this song removed some of the coarse 


And laugh at a' the pangs I dree ; 


lliaff, from the old chant, and fitted it for the Museum, 


While she, my cruel, scornfu' fair, 


H-here it was first printed.] 


I. 


Forbids me e'er to see her mair 1 


Coming through the rye, poor Lody, 




Coming through the rye. 


" 


She draiglet a' her petticoatie. 


CLrv. 


Coming through the rye. 




Jenny's a' wat, poor body. 


OUT OVER THE FORTH. 


Jenny's seldom dry ; 


Tune — " Charlie Gordon's welcome hame." 


She draiglet a' her petticoatie. 


[In one of his letters to Cunningham, dated 11th Marct 


Coming through the rye. 


1791, Burns quoted the four last lines of this tender and 


iJ:- 


gentle lyric, and inquires how he likes them.] 


trin a body meet a body — 


I. 


Coming through the rye, 


Out over the Forth I look to the north, 


Gin a body kiss a body — 


But what is the north and its Highlands to me 1 


Need a body cry ? 
III. 


The south nor the east gie ease to my breast, 


The far foreign land, or the wild rolling sea. 


Gin a body meet a body 


II. 


Coming through the glen, 


But I look to the west, when I gae to rest, 


Gin a body kiss a body — 


That happy my dreams and my slumbers may 


Need the world ken ? 


be; 


Jenny's a' wat, poor body ; 


For far in the west lives he I lo'e best. 


Jenny's seldom dry ; 


The lad that is dear to my babie and me. 


She draiglet a' her petticoatie, 
Coming through the rye. 








CLV. 




CLIII. 


THE LASS OF ECCLEFECHAft 


Tune — "Jacky Latin. 


lOl'NG JAMIE, PRIDE OF A' THE PLAIN. 






[Burns in one of his professional visits to £ecleite:.an 


Tune — " The carlin o' the glen." 


was amused with a rough old district song, wliich boim 




one sung : he rendered, at a leisure moment, the languagi 


(Sent to the Museum by Biirna in his own handwriting : 


more delicate and the sentiments less warm, anii aeut .« 


aart only is thought to be his.] 


to the Museum.] 


I. 

Young Jamie, pride of a' the plain, 


I. 

Gat ye me, gat ye me. 


S&e gallant and sae gay a swain ; 


gat ye me wi' naething f 


Thro' a' our lasses he did rove. 


Rock and reel, and spinnin' wheel, 


And reign' d resistless king of love : 


A mickle quarter basin 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



Byj attour, my gutcher has 
A hich house and a laigh ane, 

i' for bye, my bonnie sel', 
The toss of Ecclefechan. 



haud your tongue now, Luckie Laing, 

haud your tongue and jauner; 
\ beld the gate till you I met, 

Syne I began to wander : 

1 tint my whistle and my sang, 

1 tint my peace and pleasure : 

But your green graff, now, Luckie Laing, 
Wad airt me to my treasure. 



CLVI. 
THE COOPER 0' CUDDIE. 

Tune — "Bab at the bowster." 

[The wit of this song is better than its delicacy : it ia 
(riuted in the Museum, with the name of Burns attached.] 

I. 

The cooper o' Cuddie cam' here awa, 
And ca'd the girrs out owre us a' — 
i^nd our gude-wife has gotten a ca' 

That anger' d the silly gude-man, 0. 
We'll hide the cooper behind the door ; 
Behind the door, behind the door; 
We'll hide the cooper behind the door, 

And cover him under a mawn, 0. 



He sought them out, he sought them in, 
Wi', deil hae her ! and, d'eil hae him ! 
But the body was sae doited and blin', 
He wist na where he was gaun, 0. 



They cooper'd at e'es, they cooper'd at morn, 
'Till our gude-man has gotten the scorn; 
On ilkB brow she's planted a horn. 

And owears that they shall stan', 0. 
We'll hide the cooper behind the door, 
Behind the door, behind the door ; 
We'll hide the cooper behind the door, 

And cover him under a mawn, 0. 



S iM E B D Y. 

Tune — "For the sake of somebody." 

[Burns seems to have borrowed two or three lioM u 
tb.is lyric from Ramsay : he sent it to the Museam J 

I. 

My heart is sair — I dare na tell — 
My heart is sair for somebody ; 
I could wake a winter night 
For the sake o' somebody. 
Oh-hon ! for somebody ! 
Oh-hey ! for somebody ! 
I could range the world around, 
For the sake o' somebody ! 



Y.e powers that smile on virtuous love, 

0, sweetly smile ou somebody ! 
Frae ilka danger keep him free. 
And send me safe my somebody. 
Oh-hon ! for somebody ! 
Oh-hey ! for somebody ! 
I wad do — what wad I not ? 
For the sake o' somebody ! 



CLVIII. 
THE CARDIN' O'T. 

Tune- — " Salt-fish and dumplings." 

[" This song," says Sir Harris Nicolas, " is in the Mtt. 
sical IVtuseum, but not with Burns's name to it." It wa| 
given by Burns to Johnson in his own handwriting.] 

I. 

I COFT a stane o' haslock woo'. 

To make a wat to Johnny o't ; 
For Johnny is my only jo, 
I lo'e him best of ony yet. 

The cardin' o't, the spinnin' o't, 

The warpin' o't, the winnin' o't ; 
When ilka ell cost me a groat. 
The tailor staw the lynin o't. 

II. 

For though his locks be lyart gray. 
And tho' his brow be beld aboon; 
Yet I hae seen him on a day, 
The pride of a' the parishen. 

The cardin' o't, the spinnin' o't, 

The warpin' o't, the winnin' o't J 
When ilka ell cost me a groat. 
The tailor staw the lynin o't. 



UF HOBEKT BURNS. 281 


— 1 


VIII. 


CLIX. 


Her hair was like the links o' gowd. 


WHEN JANUAR' WIND. 


Her teeth were like the ivorie ; 




Her cheeks like lilies dipt in wine, 


Tune — '* The lass that made the bed for me." 


The lass that made the led to ma 


LBurnf fjand an old, cJever, but not very decorous 




•train, recording an adventure wliicli Cliarles tiie Second, 


IX. 


wliile under Presbyterian rule in Scotaiid, had with a 


Her bosom was the driven snaw, 


rouBg '-^riy of the house of Port Letham, and exercising 


Twa drifted heaps sae fair to see ; 


lit tai'^'iand skill upon it, produced the present — still to,) 


Her limbs the polish'd marble stane, 


hM ionjj for the Mjseum.] 


The lass that made the bed to me. 


I. 
Then Januar' wind -n-as blawing cauld, 


X. 

I kiss'd her owre and owre again, 


As to the north I took my way, 


And ay she wist na what to say ; 


The mirksome night did me enfauld, 


I laid her between me and the wa' — 


I knew na where to lodge till day. 


The lassie thought na lang till day. 


II. 

By my good luck a maid I met, 


XI. 

Upon the morrow when we rose, 


I thank'd her for her courtesie ; 


Just in the middle o' my care ; 
And kindly she did me invite 




But aye she blush'd, and aye she sigh'd, 


To walk into a chamber fair. 


And said, " Alas ! ye've ruin'd me." 


III. 


XII. 

I clasp'd her waist, and kiss'd her syne. 


I bow'd fu' low unto this maid, 


While the tear stood twinklin' in her e'e , 


And thank'd her for her courtesie ; • 


I said, " My lassie, dinna cry. 


I bow'd fu' low unto this maid, 


For ye ay shall mak the bed to me." 


And bade her mak a bed to me 






XIII. 


IV. 


She took her mither's Holland sheets, 


She made 'he bed baith large and wide, 


And made them a' in sarks to me : 


Wi' twa white hands she spread it down ; 


Blythe and merry may she be, 


She put the cup to her rosy lips. 


The lass that made the bed to me. 


And drank, "Young man, now sleep ye 




soun'." 


XIV. 




The bonnie lass made the bed to me, 


V. 


The braw lass made the bed to me : 


She snatch'd the candle in her hand, 


I'll ne'er forget till the day I die. 


And frae my chamber went wi' speed ; 


The lass that made the bed to me J 


But 3 eall'd her quickly back again 




I lay pome mair below my head. 




VI. 


CLX. 


A cod she laid below my head. 


SAE FAR AWA. 


And served me wi' due respect ; 




Led ti salute her wi' a kiss, 


Tune — " Dalkeith Maiden Bridge." 


I put my arms about her neck. 


[This song was sent to the Museum by Burns, ia jut 




own handwriting.] 


VII. 


I. 


" Hand aflfyour hands, young man," she says, 


0, SAD and heavy should I part, 


»' An'd dinna sae uncivil be : 


But for her sake sae far awa ; 


»f ye hae cnie love for me, 


Unknowing what my way may thfrart. 


Tsrang na my virginitie !" 


My native land sae far awa. 



iC)S THE POETICAL Iv ORKS 


Thou that of a' things Maker art, 


.etter to Syme, " with my performance, I, in my first far 


That form'd this fair sae far awa, 


vour, thought of sending it to Mrs. Oswald." He soa 


die body strength, then I'll ne'er start 


it to the Museum, perhaps also to the lady.] 


At this my way sae far awa. 


CHORUS. 


^ 


0, WAT ye wha's in yon town, 


II, 


Ye see the e'enin sun upon ? 


How true is lore to pure desert, 


The fairest dame's in yon town. 


So love to her, sae far awa : 


That e'enin sun is shining on. 


And nocht can heal my bosom's smart, 




While, oh ! she is sae far awa. 


I. 


Nane other love, nane other dart, 


Now haply down yon gay green shaw. 


I feel but hers, sae far awa ; 


She wanders !:y yon spreading tree ; 


But fairer never touch'd a heart 


How blest ye flcw'rs that round her blaw. 


Than hers, the fair sae far awa. 


Ye catch the glances o' here'e! 

II. 

How blest ye birds that round her sing. 




CLXI. 


And welcome in the blooming year ! 


I'LL AY CA' IN BY YON TOWN. 


And doubly welcome be the spring. 




The season to my Lucy dear. 


Tune — "I'll gae nae mair to yon town." 




[Jean Armour inspired this very sweet song. Sir 


III. 


Harris Nicolas says it is printed in Cromek's Reliques : 


The sun blinks blithe on yon town, 


t was first printed in the Museum.] 


And on yon bonnie braes of Ayr ; 


I. 


But my delight in yon town. 


I'll ay ca' in by yon town. 


An4 dearest bliss, is Lucy fair. 


And by yon garden green, again ; 


, 


I'll ay ca' in by yon town. 


IV. 


And see my bonnie Jean again. 


Without my love, not a' the charms 


There's nane sail ken, there's nane sail guess, 


0' Paradise could yield me joy; 


What brings me back the gaie again ; 


But gie me Lucy in my arms, 


But she my fairest faithfu' lass, 


And welcome Lapland's dreary sky I 


And stownlins we sail meet again. 


V. 


II. 


My cave wad be a lover's bower, 


She'll wander by the aiken tree. 


Tho' raging winter rent the air ; 


When trystin-time draws near again ; 


And she a lovely little flower. 


And when her lovely form I see. 


That I wad tent and shelter ther*. 


haith, she's doubly dear again ! 




I'll ay ca' in by yon town, 


VI. 


And by yon garden green, again ; 


sweet is she in yon town. 


I'll ay ca' in by yon town. 


Yon sinkin sun's gane down upon ; 


And see my bonnie Jean again. 


A fairer than's in yon town 




His setting beam ne'er shone u; (on. 


CLXII. 


VII. 

If angry fate is sworn my foe. 

And suffering I am doom'd to bear; 


0, WAT YE WHA'S IN YON TOWN. 


I careless quit aught else below. 


Tune — " ril ay ca' in by yon town." 


But spare me — spare me, Lucy iparl 


[The beautiful Lucy Johnstone, married to Oswald, 


vm. 


f Auchencruive, was the heroine of this song : it was 




wt, however, composed expressly in honour of her 


For while life's dearest blood is warm, 


tarms. « A»; was a good deal pleased," he says in a 


Ae thought frae her shall ne'er depart 



OF ROBEET BURNS. 



26» 



And sLe- as fairest is her form ! ■ 
She hab tile truest, kindest heart ! 
0, wat ye wha's in 3 jn town, 

Ye see the e'enin sun upon? 
The fairest dame's in yon town 
That e'wnin sun is shining on. 



OMAY THY MORN. 

Tune — " May, thy morn." 

[Our lyrical legends assign the inspiration of this strain 
» the accomplished Clarinda. It has been omitted by 
/harabers in his " People's Edition" of Burns.] 



Mat, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet 

As the mirk night 0' Deceijiber ; 
For sparkling was the rosy wine, 

And private was tlie chamber: 
And dear was she I dare na name. 

But I will ay remember. 
A.nd dear was she I dare na name. 

But I will ay remember. 



And here's to them, that, like oursel, 

Can push about tfie jorum ; 
And here's to them that wish us weel, 

Mfiy a' that's guid watch o'er them, 
And here's to them we dare na tell, 

The dearest 0' the quorum. 
A.nd here's to them we dare na tell, 

The dearest 0' the quorum ! 



<jx 



LOVELY POLLY STEWART. 
Tune — *' Te're ivelcome, Charlie Btewart." 

I The poet's eye was on Polly Stewart, but his mind 
MBms to have been with Charlie Stewart, and the Jacob- 
ite ha lads, when he penned these words ; — they are in 
\\9 ftjuseum.] 

I. 
LOVELY Polly Stevart ! 

O charming Polly Stewart! 
There's not a flower that blooms in May 

That's half so fair as thou art. 
The flower it blaws, it fades and fa's. 

And art can ne'er renew it; 
But worth and truth eternal youth 
¥111 give to Polly Stewart. 



May he whose arms shall fauld thy charms 

Possess a leal and true heart ; 
To him be given to ken the heaven 

He grasps in Polly Stewart. 
lovely Polly Stewart ! 

charming Polly Stewart ! 
There's ne'er a flower that blooms in Maj 

That's half so sweet as thou art. 



CLXV. 

THE HIGHLAND LADDIE. 

Tune — " If thovHt play me fair play." 

[A long and wearisome ditty, called "The High avj 
Lad and Lowland Lassie," which Burns compressed 'j>*f 
these stanzas, for Johnson's Museum 1 

I. 

The bonniest lad that e'er I saw, 

Bonnie laddie. Highland laddie, 
Wore a plaid, and was fu' braw, 

Bonnie Highland laddie. 
On his head a bonnet blue, 

Bonnie laddie. Highland laddie ; 
His royal heart was firm and true, 

Bonnie Highland laddie. 



Trumpets sound, and cannons roar, 

Bonnie lassie. Lowland lassie ; 
And a' the hills wi' echoes roar, 

Bonnie Lowland lassie. 
Glory, honour, now invite, 

Bonnie lassie, Lowland lassie. 
For freedom and my king to fight, 

Bonnie Lowland lassie. 



The sun a backward course shall -skt 

Bonnie laddie. Highland laddie, 
Ere aught thy manly courage shake, 

Bonnie Highland laddie. 
Go, for yourself procure renown, 

Bonnie laddie. Highland laddie ; 
And for your lawful king, his cro-^u, 

Bonnie Highland laddie. 



870 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



CLXVI. 

ANNA, THY CHARMS. 

Tune — " Bonnie Mary." 

[The heroine of this short, sweet song is unknowai: it 
«aa inserted in the third edition of his Poems,] 

Anna, thy charms my bosom fire, 

And waste my soul with care ; 
But ah ! how bootless to admire. 

When fated to despair ! 
Fet in thy presence, lovely fair, 

To hope may be forgiv'n ; 
For sure 'twere impious to despair, 

So much in sight of Heav'n. 



CASSILLIS' BANKS. 

Tune — [unknown. ] 

[It is supposed that " Highland Mary," who lived 
lometirae on Cassillis's banks, is the heroine of these 
erses.] 

I. 

Now bank an' brae are claith'd in green, 

An' scatter'd cowslips sweetly spring; 
By Girvan's fairy-haunted stream, 

The birdies flit on wanton wing. 
To Cassillis' banks when e'ening fa's, 

There wi' my Mary let me flee, 
There catch her ilka glance of love, 

The bonnie blink o' Mary's e'e ! 



The chield wha boasts o' warld's walth 

Is aften laird o' meikle care i 
But Mary she is a' my ain — 

Ah ! fortune canna gie me mair. 
Then let me range by Cassillis' banks, 

Wi' her, the lassie dear to me, . 
\nd catch her ilka glance o' love. 

The bonnie blink o' Mary's e'e J 



CLXvm. 

TO THEE, LOVED NITH. 

Tune — [unknown. ] 

[There are several variations extant of these verses, 
and art'Dg of srs ore which transfers the praise from 



the Nith to the Dee : but to the Dee, if the p^et apokl i 
his own person, no such influences could beliag 7 

I. 
To thee, lov'd Nith, thy gladsome plains. 

Where late wi' careless thought I rang'd, 
Though prest wi' care and gunk in woe, 

To thee I bring a heart unchang'd. 



I love thee, Nith, thy banks and braes, 
Tho' mem'ry there my bosom tear ; 

For there he rov'd that brake my heart, 
Yet to that heart, ah ! still how dear I 



BANNOCKS 0' BARLEY. 

Tune — " The Killogie." 

[" This song is in the Museum," says Sir Harris Nicolai, 
" but without Burns's name." Burns lookup an old song, 
and letting some of the old words stand, infused a Jacobit* 
»pirit into it, wrote it out, and sent it to the Museuin.1 

I. 
Bannocks o' bear meal, 

Bannocks o' barley ; 
Here's to the Highlandman's 

Bannocks o' barley. 
Wha in a brulzie 

Will first cry a parley ? 
Never the lads wi' 

The bannocks o' barley. 

II. 
Bannocks o' bear meal, 
. Bannocks o' barley ; 
Here's to the lads wi' 

The bannocks o' barley. 
Wha in his wae-days 

Were loyal to Charlie ? 
Wha but the lads wi' 

The bannocks o' barley f 



CLXX. 
HEB BALOU. 

-" The Highland Balou. 



["Published in the Musical Museum," says Si' Hanll 
Nicolas, " but without the name of theavthor." Iticaa 



OF ROBEBT BURNS. 



27. 



>ld itmin, eked }ut and amended by Burns, and sent 
kie Museum in his omt. haiid writing.] 



Hee balou ! my sweet wee Donald, 
Picture o' the great Clanronald ; 
Brawlie kens our wanton chief 
Wha got my young Highland thief. 



Leeze me on thy bonnie craigie, 
An' thou live, thou'U steal a naigie ; 
Travel the country thro' and thro', 
4 nd. bring, hame a Carlisle cow. 



Thro' the Lawlands, o'er the border, 
Weel, my babie, may thou furder : 
Herry the louus o' the laigh countree, 
Syne to the Highlands hame to me. 



WAE IS MY HEART. 

Tune — " Waeis my heart." 

I^Composed , it is said, at the request of Clarke, the 
musician, who felt, or imagined he felt, some pangs of 
heart for one of the loveliest young ladies in Nithsdale, 
Fhillis M'M^rdo.j 



Wae i*" m? *ieart, and the tear's in my e'e ; 
Lang, larL? joy's been a stranger to me ; 
Forsaken and frienJless, my burden I bear, 
And the sweet voice of pity ne'er sounds in my 

ear. 

II. 
Love, thou hast pleasures, and deep hae I loved ; 
Love, thou hast sorrows, and sair hae I proved ; 
Bti'' this bruised heart that now bleeds in my 

breast, 
f can fe»] bj its throbbings will soon be at rest. 



t), if I were happy, where happy I hae been, 
Down by yon stream, and yon bonnie castle 

green ; 
For there he is wand'ring, and musing on me, 
WTia wao! soou dry the tear frae his Phillis's e'e. 



CI XXII. 

HERE'S HIS HEALTH IN WATER 

Tune — " The job of journey-work." 

fBurns took the hint of this song from an older and !• 
decorous strain, and wrote these words, it has been saH, 
in humorous allusion to the condition in which Jean Ar 
mour found herself before marriage; as if Burns euntd 
be capable of anything so insulting. The worda ar« • 
the Museum.] 

Altho' my back be at the wa', 

An' .tho' he be the fautor ; 
Altho' my back be at the wa', 

Yet here's his health in water 1 
! wae gae by his wanton sides, 

Sae brawlie he could flatter ; 
Till for his sake I'm slighted sair, 

And dree the kintra clatter. 
But tho' my back be at the wa'^ 

And tho' he be the fautor ; 
But tho' my back be at the wa', 

Yet here's his health in water ! 



CLXXIII. 



MY PEGGY'S FACE 

Tune — '' 3Iy Peggy's Face." 

[Composed in honour of Miss Margaret Chalmers, afta 
wards Mi;s. Lewis Hay, one of the wisest, and, it is said, 
the wittiest of all the poet's lady correspondents. Burns, 
in the note in which he comraun/cated it to Johnson, said 
he had a strong private reason for wishing it to appe*i 
in the second volume of the Museum.] 



My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form. 
The frost of hermit age might warm 
My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's mind, 
Might charm the first of human kind. 
I love my Peggy's angel air, 
Her face so truly, heav'nly fair, 
Her native grace so void of art, 
But I adore my Peggy's heart 



The lily's hue, the rose's dye, 
The kindling lustre of an eye ; 
Who but owns their magic sway ? 
Who but knows they all decay ! 
The tender thrill, the pitying tear, 
The gen'rous purpose, nobly dear. 
The gentle look, that rage disarms — '• 
These are all immortal charms. 



272 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



CLXXIV. 
GLOOMY DECEMBER. 

Tune — " Wandering Willie." 

[These verses were, it is said, inspired by Clarinda, 
»nd must be taken as i record of his feelings at parting 
with one dear to him to the latest moments of existence 
— th« Mrs. Mac of many a toast, both in serious and fes- 
tive hours.] 



Anoe mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December I 

Ance mair I hail thee wi' sorrow and care : 
Sad was the parting thou makes me remember, 

Parting wi' Nancy, oh ! ne'er to meet mair. 
Fond lovers' parting is sweet painful pleasure, 

Hope beaming mild on the soft parting hour; 
But the dire feeling, farewell for ever ! 

Is anguish unmingled, and agony pure. 



Wild as the winter now tearing the forest, 

'Till the last leaf o' the summer is flown. 
Such is the tempest has shaken my bosom. 

Since my last hope and last comfort is gone! 
Still as I hail thee, thou gloomy December, 

Still shall I hail thee wi' sorrow and care ; 
For sad was the parting thou makes me remem- 
ber, 

*'arting wi' Nancy, oh ! ne'er to meet mair. 



Mr LADY'S GOWN, THERE'S GAIRS 

UPON'T. 

Tune — " Gregg's Pipes." 

[Most of this song is from the pen of Burns: he cor- 
ected the improprieties, and infused some of his own 
yric genius into the old strain, and printed the result in 
lie Museum.] 



My lady's gown, there's gairs upon't. 
And gowden flowers sae rare upon't ; 
B'it Jenny's jimps and jirldnet. 
My lord thinks meikle mair upon't. 
My lord a-hunting he is gane. 
But hounds or hawks wi' him are nane ; 
By Colin's cottage lies his game. 
If Colin's Jenny be at hame. 



My lady's white, my lady's red, 
And ki:\i and kin o' Cassillis' blude; 



But her ten-pund lands o' tocher guid 
Were a' the charms his lordship lo'ei. 



Out o'er yon muir, out o er yon moss, 
Whare gor-cocks thro' the heather pasf 
There wons auld Colin's Ijonnie lass, 
A lily in a wilderness. 



Sae sweetly move her genty limbs, 
Like music notes o' lovers' hymns : 
The diamond dew is her een sae blue. 
Where laughing love sae wanton swims 



My lady's dink, my lady's drest. 
The flower and fancy o' the west; 
But the lassie that a man lo'es best, 
0~ that's the lass to make him blest. 
My lady's gown, there's gairs upon't, 
And gowden flowers sae rare upon't ; 
But Jenny's jimps and jirkinet, 
My lord thinks meikle mair upon't. 



CLXXVI. 

AMANG THE TREES. 

Tune — " The King of France, he rade a ract 

[Burns wrote these verses m scorn of those, and ►-<-»<i 
are many, who prefer 

" The capon craws and queer ha ha's !" 
of emasculated Italy to the original and delicious \.iB, 
Highland and Lowland, of old Caledonia: the song i4 « 
fragment — the more's the pity.] 

I. 

Amang the trees, where humming be§s 

At buds and flowers were hinging, 0, 
Auld Caledon drew out her drone. 

And to her pipe was singing, ; 
'Twas pibroch, sang, strathspey, or reeis, 

She dirl'd them aff fu' clearly, 0, 
When there cam a yell o' foreign squeels, 

That dang her tapsalteerie, 0. 

II. 
Their capon craws and queer ha ha's, 

They made our lugs grow eerie, ; 
The hungry bike did scrape and pike, 

'Till we were wae and weary, ; 
But a royal ghaist wha ance was cas'd 

A prisoner aughteen year awa. 
He fir'd a fiddler in the north 

That dang them tapsalteerie, 0. 



OF ROBEKT BURNS. 



273 



THE <JOWDEN LOCKS OF ANNA. 

Tune — '^ Banks of Banna." 

[" Anne vith the golden locks," one of the attendant 
inaidens m Burns's howff, in Dumfries, was very fair and 
very tractable, and, as may be surmised from the song, 
had other pretty ways to render herself agreeable to the 
customers t. in the serving of wine. Burns recommended 
this song to '1 Homson ; and one of his editors makes him 
Bay, " I think tliis is one of the best love-songs I ever 
composed," but these are not the words of Burns; this 
contradiction is made openly, lest it should be thought 
Ihat the bard ad the bad taste to prefer this strain to 
jozens of ot.ieis more simple, more impassioned, and 
••ore natural.] 



Testreen I had a pint o' wine, 

A place where body saw na' ; 
Yestreen lay on this breast o' mine 

The gowden locks of Anna. 
The hungry Jew in wilderness 

Rejoicing o'er his manna, 
Was naething to my hinny bliss 

Upon the lips of Anna. 



1q monarchs tali the east and west, 

Frae Indus to Savannah I 
Gie me within my straining grasp 

The melting form of Anna, 
'''here I'll despise imperial charms, 

An empress or sultana, 
'Vhile dying raptures in her arms 

I give and take with Anna ! 



Awa, thou flaunting god o' day ! 

Awa, thou pale Diana ! 
Ilk star gae hide thy twinkling ray. 

When I'm to meet my Anna. 
Come, in thy raven plumage, night ! 

Sun, moon, and stars withdrawn a' 
,\nd bring an angel pen to write 

My transports wi' my Anna ! 



The kirk an' state may join and tell- 
To do sio things I maunna : 

The kirk and state may gang to hell, 
And I'll gae to my Anna. 

She is the sunshine of my e'e. 
To live but her I canna: 

Had I on earth but wishes three. 
The first should be my Anna. 
18 



MY AIN KIND DEARIE 0. 

[This is the first Eong composed by Burns for th« 
national collection of Thomson : it was written in Octo- 
ber, 1792. " On reading over the Lea-rig," he says, "1 
immediately set about trying my hand on it, and, aftel 
all, I could make nothing more of it than the followiiij'." 
The first and second verses were only sent: Burns \}Att 
the third and last verse in December.] 



When o'er the hill the eastern stai 

Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo ; 
And owsen frae the furrow'd field 

Return sae dowf and weary, ! 
Down by the burn, where scented birkg 

Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo ; 
I'll meet thee on the lea-rig. 

My ain kind de^irie ! 



In mxTkest glen, at midnight hour, 

I'd rove, and ne'er he eerie, O ; 
If thro' that glen I gaed to thee, 

My ain kind dearie ! 
Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild, 

And I were ne'er sae wearie, 0, 
I'd meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie ! 



The hunter lo'es the morning sun, 

To rouse the mountain deer, my jo; 
At noon the fisher seeks the glen, 

Alang the burn to steer, my jo ; 
Gie me the hour o' gloamin gray, 

It maks my heart sae cheery, 
To meet thee on the lea-ring, 

My ain kind dearie J 



CLXXIX. 

TO MARY CAMPBELL 

["In my very early years," says Burns to Thomson, 
" when 1 was thinking of going to the West Indies, 1 
took the following farewell of a dear girl. You must 
know that all my earlier love-songs were the breathing* 
of ardent passion, and though it might have been easy is 
after times to have given them a polish, yet that polish, 
to me, would have defaced the legend of my heart, 80 

1 For " scented birks," in some copies, '' birken bud*. 



27 1 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



"■aithfuly inscribed on them. Their uncouth simpli' itj 
was, as tliey say of wines, their race." The heroine of 
>hiB early composition was Highland Mary.] 



Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 
And leave old Scotia's shore ? 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 
Across th' Atlantic's roar ? 



sweet grows the lime and the orange, 

And the apple on the pice ; 
But a' the charms o' the Itidies 

Can never equal thine. 



I hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary, 
I hae sworn by the Heavens to be true ; 

And sae may the Heavens forget me 
When I forget my vow ! 



plight me your faith, my Mary, 
And plight me your lily white hand ; 

plight me jour faith, my Mary, 
Before I leave Scotia's strand. 



We hae plighted our troth, my Mary, 

In mutual affection to join ; 
And curst be the cause that shall part us ! 

The hour and the moment o' time ! 



THE WINSOME WEE THING. 

iThese words were wri'ten for Thomson: or rather 
tmde extempore "I mifht give you something more 
^rofcind,'^ says the poet, " yet it might not suit the 
(if 'It aorse ga.lop of the air, so well as this random 

• 1,1 'l 



She is a winsDme wee thing. 
She is a handsome wee thing, 
She is a bonnie wee thing. 
This sweet wee wife o' mine. 



I never saw a fairer, 
I never lo'ed a dearer ; 
And niest my heart I'll wear her. 
For fear my j ewel tine. 



She is a winsome wee thing. 
She is a handsome wee thing, 
She is a bonnie wee thing. 
This sweet wee wife o' mine. 



The vrarld's wrack we share o't, 
The warstle and the care o't ; 
Wi' her I'll blythely bear it, 
And think my lot divine 



BONNIE LESLEY. 

["I have just," says, Burns to Thomson, " lieea 0<>« 
ing over the ' Collier's bonnie Daughter,' and if the fo. 
lowing rhapsody, which I composed the other aay, on a 
charming Ayrshire girl, Miss Leslie Baillis, as she passe* 
through this place to England, will suit your taste bettej 
than the Collier Lassie, fall on and welcome." T.ii 
lady was soon afterwards married to Mr. Cuming-, oi 
Lojie.] 



SAW ye bonnie Lesley 

As she ga'ed o'er the border ? 

She's gane, like Alexander, 

To spread her conquests farther. 



To see her is to love her, 
And love but her for ever ; 

For Nature made her what she is, 
And never made anither I 



Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, 
Thy subjects we, before thee: 

Thou art divine, fair Lesley, 
The hearts o' men adore thee. 



The deil he could na scaith thee, 
Or aught that wad belang thee ; 

He'd look into thy bonnie face, 
And say, " I canna wrang thee ' 



The powers aboon will tent thee ; 

Misfortune sha' na steer thee : 
Thou'rt like themselves so lovely, 

That ill they'll ne'er let near tii 




Return again, fair Lesley,. 

Return to Caledonie ; 
That we may brag, we hae a lass 

There's nane again sae bonnie. 



d I G H L A N D MARY. 

Tune — '■'■ Katherine, Ogie." 

[Mary Campbell, of whose worth and beauty Burns 
nas sjng with such deep feeling, was the daughter of a 
onarmer, who lived in Greenock. She became acquainted 
with the poet while on service at the castle of Mont- 
gomery', and their strolls in the woods and their roaming 
trystes only served to deepen and settle their affections. 
Their love had rtmeh of the solemn as well as of the ro- 
mantic : on the day of their separation they plighted their 
mutual faith by the exchange of Bibles : they stood with 
a running-stream between them, and lifting up water in 
Sheir hands vowed love while woods grew a .id waters ran. 
The Bible which the poet gave was elegantly bound: 
' Ye shall not swear by my name falsely,' was written 
m the bold Mauchline hand of Burns, and underneath 
was his name, and bis mark as a freemason. They parted 
to meet no more : Mary Campbell was carried off sud- 
denly by a burning fever, and the first intimation which 
the poet had of her fate, was when, it is said, he visited 
bs.' friends to meet her on her return from Cowal, whi- 
iher she had gone to make arrangements for her mar- 
riage. The Bible is in the keeping of her relations : we 
lave seen a lock of her hair ; it was very long and very 
■STght, and of a hue deeper than the flaxen. The song 
(TOs writter. f .-f Thomsf n-"s work.] 



Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 

The castle o' Montgomery, 
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, 

Your waters never drumlie ! 
There Simmer first unfauld her robes, 

And there the langest tarry ; 
For there I took the last farewell 

0' my sweet Highland Mary. 



How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk, 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom, 
As underneath their fragrant shade 

I clasp'd her to my bosom ! 
The golden hours, on angel wings 

Flew o'er me and my dearie ; 
7or dear to me, as light and life, 

Was my sweet Highland Mary! 



Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace, 

Our parting -^as fu 'ender ; 
And, pledging aft to meet again, 

We tore oursels asunder ; 
But oh ! fell death's untimely frost, 

That nipt my flower sae early !— 
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clayi 

That wraps my Highland Mary ! 



pale, pale now, those rosy lips 

I aft hae kissed sae fondly ! 
And clos'd for ay the sparkling glance 

That dwelt on me sae kindly ! 
And mouldering now in silent dust, 

That heart that lo'ed me dearly — 
But still within my bosom's core 

Shall live my Highland Mary ' 



CLXXXIII. 
AULD ROB MORRIS. 

[The starting lines of this song are from one of no ntc5l 
merit in Ramsay's collection : the old strain is sarcastic ; 
the new strain is tender : it w^as written for Thomson.l 



Thebe's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon 

glen. 
He's the king o' guid fellows and wale of auld 

men ; 
He has gowd in his coff'ers, he has owsen anci 

kine. 
And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine. 



She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in Maj 
She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay, 
As blythe and as artless as the lamb on the lea, 
And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e. 



But oh ! she's an heiress, — auld Robin's a lalrct, 
And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and 

yard ; 
A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed ; 
The wound^s I must hide that will soon be my 

dead. 



27« THE POETICAL WORKS 


IV. 

The Jay comes to me, but delight brings me 


IV. 

How it comes let doctors tell, 


nane ; 


Ha, ha, the wooing o't ; 


The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane: 


Meg grew sick — as he grew heal, 


1 wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist, 


Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 


Anc I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my 


Something in her bosom wrings, 


breftsi 


For relief a sigh she brings : 


V: 


And 0, her een, they spak sic things ! 


had she but been of a lower degree, 


Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 


I then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon 


V. 


me! 


Duncan was a lad o' grace. 


0, how past descriving had then been my bliss, 


Ha, ha, the wooing o't ; 
Maggie's was a piteous case, 


As now my distraction no words can express ! 




Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
Duncan could na be her death, 






Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath ; 


CLXXXIV. 


New they're crouse and canty 1 'Uth, 


DUNCAN GRAY. 


Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 


[This Duncan Gray of Burns, has nothing in common 




with the wild old song of that name, save the first line, and 
a part of the third, neither has it any share in the senti- 






ments of an earlier strain, with the same title, by the 




•a me hand. It was written for the work of Thomson.] 


OLXXXV. 


I. 


POORTITH CAULD. 


Duncan Gray cam here to woo, 


Tune — " I had a Jiorse." 


Ha, ha, the wooing o't ; 




On blythe yule night when we were fou, 


[Jean Lorimer, the Chloris and the " Lassie with Jh* 
lint-white locks" of Burns, was the heroine ol this ex- 


Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 


quisite lyric : she was at that time very yoi ig ; hCi 


Maggie coost her head fu' high. 


ahape was fine, and her " dimpled cheek and cherrj 


Look'd asklent and unco skeigh, 


mou" will be long remembered in Nithsdale.] 


Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh ; 


I. 


Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 


POORTITH cauld, and restless love, 


II. 


Ye wreck my peace between ye ; 


Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd, 
Ha, ha, the wooing o't ; 


Yet poortith a' I could forgive. 


An' twere na' for my Jeanie. . 


fi^eg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
Duncan sigh'd baith out and in. 


why should fate sic pleasure ha "ft 


Life's dearest bands untwining? 


Or why sae sweet a flower as love 


Grat his een baith bleer't and blin'. 


Depend on fortune's shining ? 


Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn ; 




Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 


II. 




This warld's wealth when I think on, 


III. 


It's pride, and a' the lave o't — 


Time and chance are but a tide, 


Fie, fie on silly coward man. 


Ha, ha, the wooing o't ; 


That he should be the slave o't^ 


Slighted love is sair to bide, 




Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 


III. 


Shall I, like a fool, quoth he, 


Her een sae bonnie blue betray 


For a haughty hizzie die ? 


How she repays my passion ; 


She may gae to — France for me ! 


But prudence is her o'erword ay, 


Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 


She talks of rank and fashian. 



OF EGBERT BURNS. 277 


IV. 


CLXXXVII. 


wha can prudence think upon, 
And sic a lassie by him ? 

wha can prudence think upon, 
And sae in love as I am ? 


LORD GREGORY. 

[Dr. Wolcot wrote a Lord Gregory for Tbomsoni 
collection, in imitation of which Burns wrote his, and 
the Englishman complained, with an oath, that th« 




Scotchman sought to rob him of the merit of his coj»uo- 


V. 


sition. Wolcot's scmg was, indeed, written first, t-a' 


How blest the humble cotter's fate !' 


they are both but imitations of that most exquipiteiild •a^. 
lad, ■' Fair Annie of Lochryan," which neither Wo.coS 


He wooes his simple dearie ; 


nor Burns valued as it deserved: it far surpasses toti 


The silly bogles, wealth and state, 


their songs.] 


Can never make them eerie. 


I. 


why should Fate sic pleasure have, 


MIRK, mirk is this midnight hour, 


Life's dearest bands untwining ? 


And loud the tempest's roar ; 


Or why sae sweet a flower as love 


A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tow'r, 


Pepend on Fortune's shining ? 


Lord Gregory, ope thy door ! 




II. 

An exile frae her father's ha', 




And a' for loving thee ; 




At least some pity on me shaw 


CLXXXVI. 


If love it may na be. 


GALLA WATER. 


• m. 


l> eal'a Water" is an improved version of an earlier 
lor.g by Burns : but both songs owe some of their attrac- 


Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grov« 
By bonnie Irwin-side, 


)ions to an older strain, which the exquisite air has made 


Where first I own'd that virgin-lov'> 


popular over the world. It was wi'itten for Thomson.] 


I lang, lang had denied ? 


I. 
There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, 


lY. 

How often didst thou pledge and vow 


That wander thro' the blooming heather ; 


Thou wad for ay be mine ; 


But Yarrow braes nor Ettrick shaws 


And my fond heart, itsel' sae true, 


Can match the lads o' Galla Water. 


It ne'er mistrust id thine. 


II. 
liat there is ane, a secret ane, 

Aboon them a' I lo'e him better ; 
And I'll be his, and he'll be mine, 


4 ^' 
Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory, 

And flinty is thy breast — 

Thou dart of heaven that flashest by, 

wilt thou give me rest ! 


The bonnie lad o' Galla Water. 


III. 


VI. 

Ye mustering thunders from above, 


iltho' his daddie was nae laird. 


Your willing victim see ! 


And tho' I hae nae meikle tocher ; 


But spare and pardon my fause love, 


/et rich in kindest, truest love, 


His wrangs to heaven and me ' 


We'll tent our flocks by Galla Water. 




IV. 

It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth, 


CLxxxvin. 


That coft contentment, peace, or pleasure ; 
The ba.nds and bliss o' mutual love, 
that's the chiefest warld's treasure ! 


MARY MORISON. 

Tune—" Bide ye yet." 




[" The song prefixed," observes Burns to ThoniBo.. 
' is one of mv juvenile works. I leave it \u your handa 


"Tie wild-wood Indian's Fate," in the origins' MS. 



278 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



I do not think it very remarkable either for its merits or 
te demerits." <' Of all the productions of Burns," says 
Has'.litt, " the pathetic and serious love-songs which he 
aas left behind him, in the manner of the old ballads, are, 
nerliaps, those which take the deepest and most lasting 
nold nf t'le mind. Such are the lines to Mary Morison." 
The song is supposed to have been written on one of a 
"siJE.iv Morisons at iMauchline.] 



Maky, at thy window be, 

It is the wish'd, the trysted hour ! 
Those smiles and glances let my see 

That make the miser's treasure poor: 
How blithely wad I bide the stoure, 

A weary slave frae sun to sun ; 
Coiild I the rich reward secure, 

The lovely Mary Morison! 



Yestreen, when to the trembling string 

The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha', 
To thee my fancy took its wing, 

I sat, but neither heard or saw : 
Tho' this was fair, and that was braw, 

And yon the toast of a' the town, 
I si-h'd, and said amang them, a', 

" Ye are na Mary Morison." 



Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, 

Wha for thy sake wad gladly die ' 
Or cai)st thou break that heart of his., 

Wha*e only faut is loving thee ? 
Tf love for love thou wilt ua gie, 

At least be pity to me shown ; 
A thought ungentle canna be 

The thought o' Mary Morison. 



WANDERING WILLIE. 

[fiest version.] 

[The idea of this song is taken from verses of the same 
B*mo publislied by Herd : the heroine is supposed to 
unve been the accomplished Mrs. Riddel. Erskine and 
I':iomson sat in judgment upon it, and, like true critics, 
Kjueezed much of the natural and original spirit out of 
t. Burns approved of their alterations ; but he approved, 
ao doutt, in bitterness of spirit.] 

I. 

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
Nvw tired with wandering, haud awa hame; 



Come to my bosom, my ae only dep.rie. 
And tell me thou bring'st me mj Willie tiii 



Loud blew the cauld winter winds at our part 
ing; 
It was na the blast brought the tear in mj 
e'e; 
Now welcome the simmer, and welcome mj 
Willie, 
The simmer to nature, my vvillie to me. 



Ye hurricanes, rest in the cave o' your slumbers 1 
how your wild horrors a lover alarms ! 

Awaken, ye breezes, row gently, ye billows. 
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my 
arms. 



But if he's forgotten his faithfulest Nannie, 
still flow between us, thou wide roaring 
main ; 

May I never see it, may I never trow it. 

But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain. 



C!XC. 

WANDERING WILLIE, 

[last version.] 

[This is the " Wandering Willie" as alte.ed by Er- 
skine and Thomson, and approved by Burns, a'cer reject 
ing several of tlieir emendations. The chang'Os wora 
made chiefly with the view of ha'-motiizing the word* 
with the music — an Italian mode of men'^^ng the Ijannon} 
of the human voice.] 



Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
Here awa, there awa, haud awa hame ; 

Come to my bosom, my ain only dearie, 

Tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same 



Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our part 

Fears for my Willie brought tears in my e'e 
Welcome now simmer, and welcome my Willie, 
The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



?7S 



Rest, ye -wild storms, in the cave of your slum- 
bers. 
How yoTir dread howling a lover alarms ! 
Wauken, ye breezes, row gently, ye billows. 
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my 
arms. 



Sai 



IV. 

oh, if he's faithless, and minds na his 
Nannie, 
Flow still between us, thou wide roaring main ; 
May I never see it, may I never trow it, 
But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain. 



CXCI. 
OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, OH! 

[Written for Thomson's collection : the first version 
which he wrote was not happy in its harmony : Burns 
altered and corrected it as it now stands, and then said, 
" I do not know if this song be really mended."] 



OH, open the door, some pity to show. 

Oh, open the door to me, Oh!' 
Tho' thou has been false, I'll ever prove true, 

Oh, open the door to me. Oh ! 



Oauld is the blast upon my pale cheek. 
But caulder thy love for me. Oh ! 

The frost that freezes the life at my heart. 
Is nought to my pains frae thee. Oh! 



The wan moon is setting behind the white wave, 
And time is setting with me, Oh ! 

Fllse frienls, false love, farewell! for mair 
I'll ne'er trouble them, nor thee. Oh! 



She has open'd the door, she has open'd it wide ; 

She sees his pale corse on the plain. Oh ! 
My true love ! she cried, and sank down by his 
side. 

Never to rise aga'n. Oh ! 



1 This second line was onginaliy- 
I, Ob "' 



' If love it may na 



CXOII. 

JESSIE, 

Tune — "Bonnie Dundee." 

[Jessie Staig, the eldest daughter of the provosl o. 
Dumfries, was the heroine of this song. She became a 
wife and a mother, but died early in life : she is st'Ji af 
fectionately remembered in her native place.] 



True hearted was he, the sad swain o' th« 
Yarrow, 

And fair are the maids on the banks o' the 
Ayr, 
But by the sweet side o' the Nith's winding river, 

Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair : 
To equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over ; 

To equal young Jessie you seek it in vain ; 
Grace, beauty, and elegance fetter her lover. 

And maidenly modesty fixes the chain 



0, fresh is the rose in the gay, dewy morning, 

And sweet is the lily at evening close ; 
But in the fair presence o' lovely young Jessie 

Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose. 
Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring ; 

Enthr.on'd in her een he delivers his law : 
And still to her charms she alone is a stranger— 

Her modest demeanour's the jewel of a' ! 



CXCIII. 

THE POOR AND HONEST SODGEK 

Air—" The Mill, 3IiU, 0." 

[Burns, it is said, composed this song, once very popu 
lar, on hearing a maimed soldier relate his adveatureii 
at Brownhill, in Nithsdale : it was published by Thorn 
son, after suggesting some alterations, which were i)ro 
perly rejected.] 

When wild war's deadly blast was blawu 

And gentle peace returning, 
Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless, 

And mony a widow moarning ; 
I left the lines and tented field. 

Where lang I'd been a lodger, 
My humble knapsack a' my wealth, 

A poor and honest sodger. 



A leal, light heart was in my breast. 
My hand unstain'd wi' plunder* 



280 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



And for fair Scotia, hame again, 
I cheery on did wander. 

[ thought up n the banks o' Coil, 
r thought upon my Nancy, 

I thought upon the witcliiug smile 
TLat saught my youthful fancy. 



A.t length I reach'd the bonny glen, 

Where early life I sported ; 
I pass'd the mill, and trysting thorn^ 

Where Nancy aft I courted : 
Wha spfed I but my ain dear maid, 

Down by her mother's dwelling! 
And turn'd me round to hide the flood 

That in my een was swelling. 



Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, sweet lasa, 

Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom, 
! happy, happy, may he be 

That's dearest to thy bosom ! 
My purse is light, I've far to gang. 

And fain wad be thy lodger ; 
I've serv'd my king and country lang — 

Take pity on a sodger. 



Sae wistfully she gaz'd on me, 

And lovelier was then ever ; 
Quo' she, a sodger ance I lo'd, 

I'orget him shall I never : 
Our humble cot, and hamely fare, 

Ye freely shall partake it* 
That gallant badge — the dear cockade — 

Ye're welcome for the sake o't 



She gaz'd — she redden'd like a rose — 

Sjne pale like onie lily; 
She sank within my arms, and cried, 

Art thou my ain dear Willie ? 
By him who made yon sun and sky — 

By whom true love's regarded, 
I am the man; and thus may still 

True lovers be rewarded I 



The vrars are o'er, and I'm come hame, 
And find thee still true-hearted ; 

Tho' poor in gear, we're rich in love, 
And mair we'se ne'er be parted. 



Quo' she, my grandsire left me gowd, 
A mail en plenish'd fairly ; 

And come, my faithful sodger lad, 
Thou'rt welcome to it dearly ! 



For gold the merchant ploughs the main. 

The farmer ploughs the manor ; 
But glory is the sodger's prize, 

The sodger's wealth is honour ; 
The brave poor sodger ne'er despise. 

Nor count him as a stranger : 
Remember he's his country's stay. 

In day and hour of danger. 



Air — ' 



MEG 0' THE MILL. 

\y! bonnie lass, will you lie in a barrack 



?»i 



["Do you know a fine air," Burns asks Thomson, 
April, 1793, " called ' Jackie Hume's Lament ?' I hav« 
a song of considerable merit to that air : I'll enclose you 
both song and tune, as I have them ready to send to the 
Museum. " It is probable that Thomson liked these 
verses too well to let them go willingly from his hanils : 
Burns touched up the old song with the same starling 
line, but a less delicate conclusion, and published it in 
the Museum.] 



O KEN ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten ? 
An' ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten? 
She has gotten a coof wi' a claute o' siller, 
And broken the heart o' the barley Miller. 



The Miller was strappin, the Miller was ruddy; 
A heart like a lord and a hue like a lady : 
The Laird was a widdiefu', bleerit knurl ; 
She's left the guid-fellow and ta'en the thurl. 



The Miller he hecht her a heart leal and lofingj 
The Laird did address her wi' matter mail 

moving, 
A fine pacing horse wi' a clear chained bridle, 
A whip by her side and a bonnie side-saddle. 



wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing ; 
And wae on the love that is fixed on a mailen I 
A tocher's nae word in a true lover's parle. 
But gie me my love, and a fig for the warl I 




LOGAN BRAES." 



OF HOJBERT BURNS. 



981 



BLYTHE HAE I BEEN. 
Tune — " Liggeram Cosh." 

[Barai w io seldom praised liis own compositions, told 
rhoiiiMi for ■w'"-;*? work he wrote it, that " Blyths hae 
I been o- yon hi.l,'' was one of the finest songs he had 
iver made in his life, and composed on one of the most 
Vtfely wom'»n in the world. The heroine was Miss Les- 
' BaiUie.} 

I. 
Blythe hae I been on jon hill 

As the lambs before me ; 
Careless ilka thought and free 

As the breeze flew o'er me. 
Now nae langer sport and play, 
Mirth or sang can please me ; 
Lesley is sae fair and coy, 
Care and anguish seize me. 



Heavy, heavy is the task, 

Hopeless love declaring: 
Trembliag, I dow nocht but glow'r, 

Sighing, dumb, despairing ! 
If she wiuna ease the thraws 

In my bosom swelling. 
Underneath the grass-green sod 

Soon maun be my dwelling. 



CXCVI. 

LOGAN WATEE. 

["Have you ever, my dear sir," says Burns to Thorn- 
ton, 25th June, 1793, " felt your bosom refadv to burst 
Vith indignation on reading of those mighty villains who 
iivide kingdom against kingdom, desolate provinces, and 
ay nations waste, out of the wantonness of ambition, or 
often from still more ignoble passions ? In a mood of 
this Vind to-day I recollected the air of Logan Water. 
UL have done anything at all like justice to my feelings, 
ti* following song, composed in three-quarters of an 
i^l. 's meditation in my elbow-chair, ought to have some 
merit." The poet had in mind, too, during this poetic 
St, the beautiful song of Logan-braes, by my friend Jolin 
liayne, a Nithsdale poet.] 



La3AN, sweetly didst thou glide, 
That day I was my Willie's bride ! 
And years synsyne hae o'er us run, 
Like Logan to the simmer sun. 
But now thy flow'ry banks appear 
Like drumlie winter, dark and drear, 
While my dear lad maun face his faes. 
Far, f.-r frae me and Logan braes ! 



Again the merry month o' May 
Has made our hills and valleys g;jy ; 
The birds rejoice in leafy bowers, 
The bees hum round the breathing fiowera 
Blythe Morning lifts his rosy eye, 
And Evening's tears are teais of j^y ; 
My soul, delightless, a' surveys, 
While Willie's far frae Logan braes. 

III. 
Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush, 
Amang her nestlings sits the thrush ; 
Her faithfu' mate will share her toil, 
Or wi' his song her cares beguile : 
But I, wi' my sweet nurslings here, 
Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer, 
Pass widow'd nights and joyless days. 
While Willie's far frae Logan braes 

IV. 

wae upon you, men o' state, 
That brethren rouse to deadly hate i ^ 
As ye make mony a fond heart mourn, 
Sae may it on your heads return ' 
How can your flinty hearts enjoy 
The widow's tears, the orphan's cry ?• 
But soon may peace bring happy days 
And Willie hame to Logan braes ! 



CXCVII. 
THE EED,' RED ROSE 

Air — " Hughic Graham. " 

[There are snatches of old song so exquisitely fin* 
that, like fractured crystal, they cannot be mended 
eked out, without showing where the hand of the re- 
storer has been. This seems the case with the first vers* 
of this song, which the poet found in Witherspocn, and 
completed by the addition of the second versa, which hi 
felt to be inferior, by desiring Thomson to man e his owR 
the first verse, and let the other follow, whr jh wot j 
conclude the strain with a thought as beautiful as it Wl« 
original.] 



WERE my love yon lilac fair, 

Wi' purple blossoms to the spring; 

And I, a bird to shelter there. 
When wearied on my little wing I 

Originally — 

" Ye mind na, 'mid your cruel ioys. 
The widow's tears, the oiphnu's crio» ' 



>82 THE POETICAL WORKS 


How I wad mourn, when it was torn 


V. 


By autumn wild, and winter rude ! 
But I wad sing ou wanton wing, 
When youthfu' May its bloom renewed. 


He gaed wi' Jeanie to the liyste, 

He danc'd wi' Jeanie on the down ; 
And, lang ere witless Jeanie wist, 


II. 


Her heart was tint, her peace was aUwa 


gir K.y love were yon red rose, 
That grows upon the castle Ava' ; 

And I mysel' a drap o' dew, 
Into her bonnie breast to fa' ! 

Oh, there beyond expression blest, 
I'd feast on beauty a' the night ; 

Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest, 


VI. 

As in the bosom o' the stream, 

The moon-beam dwells at dewy e'on ; 

So trembling, pure, was tender love 
Within the breast o' bonnie Jean. 

VII. 

And now she works her mammie's wark, 


Till fley'd awa by Phoebus' light. 




And ay she sighs wi' care and pain ; 
Yet wist na what her ail might be. 
Or what wad mak her weel again. 




CXCVIII. 


VIII. 


BONNIE JEAN. 


But did na Jeanie's heart loup light, 
And did na joy blink in her e'e. 


^Jean M'Murdo, the heroine of this song, the eldest 
daughter of John M'Murdo of Drumlanrig, was, both in 
merit and look, very worthy of so sweet a strain, and 
justified the poet from the charge made against him in 
the West, that his beauties were not other men's beau- 
ties. In the M'Murdo manuscript, in Burns's handwrit- 
ing, there is a well-merited compliment which has slipt 
»ut of the printed copy in Tliomson : — 

" Thy handsome foot thou shalt na set 
In barn or byre to trouble thee."] 


As Robie tauld a tale of love, 
Ae e'enin' on the lily lea ? 

IX. 

The sun was sinking in the west, 
The birds sang sweet in ilka grove ; 

His cheek to hers he fondly prest. 
And whisper'd thus his tale o' love : 


I. 

There was a lass, and she was fair, 
At kirk and market to be seen. 

When a.' the fairest maids were met, 
The fairest maid was bonnie Jean. 


X. 

Jeanie fair, I lo'e thee dear ; 

canst thou think to fancy me ! 
Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot. 

And learn to tent the farms wi' me ? 


II. 

And aye she wrought her mammie's wark^ 

And ay she sang so merrilie : 
The blithest bird upon the bush 

Had ne'er a lighter heart than she. 


XI. 

At barn or byre thou shalt na drudge, 
Or naething else to trouble thee ; 

But stray amang the heather-bells. 
And tent the waving corn wi' me. 


III. 

But hawks will rob the tender joys 
That bless the little lintwhite's nest ; 

And frost will blight the fairest flowers, 
And love will break the soundest rest. 

rv. 

Young Robie was the brawest lad, 

The flower and pride of a' the glen ; 
And he had owsen, sheep, and kye, 


XII. 

Now what could artless Jeanie do ? 

She had nae will to say him na : 
At length she blush' d a sweet consent, 

And love was ay between them twft- 






4.nd wanton naigies nine or ten. 





OF ROBERl BURNS. 



283 



CXCIX. 

PHILLIS THE FAIR. 

Tune — "Robin Adair." 

^Iii3 ladies of the M'Murdo family were graceful and 
beautiful, and lucky in finding a poet capable of record- 
IBg their charms in lasting strains. The heroine of this 
nojig was Phillis M'Murdo ; a favourite of the poet. The 
rsrHOB W3r3 composed at the request of Clarke, the mu- 
•Icif n, who believed himself in love with his " charnadng 
»ai il." She laughed at the presumptuous fiddler.] 



While larks with little wing 

Fann'd the pure air, 
Tasting the breathing spring, 

Forth I did fare : 
<Tay the sun's golden eye 
Peep'd o'er the mountains high; 
Such thy morn ! did I cry, 

Phillis the fair. 



In each bird's careless song, 

Glad I did share ; 
While yon wild flowers among, 

Chance led me there : 
Sweet to the opening day. 
Rosebuds bent the dewy spray ; 
Such thy bloom ! did I say, 

Phillis the fair. 

Ill 

Down in a shady walk 

Doves cooing were, 
I mark'd the cruel hawk, 

Caught in a snare : 
So kind may fortune be, 
Such make his destiny ! 
He who would injure thee, 

Phillis the fair. 



words were written : the hero of the lay has beer I014 
dead; the heroine resides, a widow, in Edinburgh.] 



Had I a cave on some wild, distant shore, 
Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing 
roar; 
There would I weep my woes, 
There seek my lost repose. 

Till grief my eyes should close, 
Ne'er to wake more. 



Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare, 
All thy fond plighted vows — fleeting as air I 
To thy new lover hie. 
Laugh o'er thy perjury, 
Then in thy bosom try 
What peace is there ! 



HAD I A CAVE. 

Tune — *' Robin Adair." 

Alexander Cunningham, on whose unfortunate love- 
»d venture Burns composed this song for Thomson, was 
11 jeweller in Edinburgh, well connected, and of agreea- 
ble and polished manners. The story of his faithless 
I was the talk of Edinburgh, in 1793, when these 



BY ALLAN STREAM. 

["Bravo! say I," exclaimed Burns, when he wrote 
these verses for Thomson. " It is a good song. Should 
you think so too, not else, you can set the music to it, 
and let the other follow as English verses. Autumn ii 
my propitious season; I make more verses in it than all 
the year else." The old song of " O ray love Anrde'l 
very bonnie," helped the muse of Burns with this lyric. 



By Allan stream I chanced to rove 

While Phoebus sank beyond Benleai, 
The winds were whispering through the groTe, 

The yellow corn was waving ready ; 
I listened to a lover's sang. 

And thought on youthfu' pleasures mony . 
And aye the wild wood echoes rang- 

dearly do I lo'e thee, Annie I 



happy be the woodbine bower, 

Nae nightly bogle make it eerie •. 
Nor ever sorrow stain the hour, 

The place and time I met my dearie ! 
Her head upon my throbbing breast, 

She, sinking, said, "I'm thine for ever?' 
While mony a kiss the seal imprest. 

The sacred vow, — we ne'er sb >uld sever. 



:^'4 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



The haunt o' Spring's the primrose brae, 

The Simmer joys the flocks to follow; 
How cheery, thro' her shortening day, 

Is Autumn, in her weeds o' yellow ! 
Bat can they melt the glowing heart. 

Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure, 
Or thro' each nerve the rapture dart, 

Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure ? 



ecu. 
WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YOU. 

[In one of the variations of this song the name of the 
jeroine is Jeanie : the song itself owes some of the senti- 
ments as well as words to an okl favourite Nithsdale 
chant of the same name. " Is Whistle, and I'll come 
to you, my lad," Burns inquires of Thomson, "one of 
your airs? I admire it much, and yesterday I set the 
following verses to it." The poet, two years afterwards, 
altered the fourth line thus : — 

" Thy Jeany will venture wi' ye, my lad," 
and assigned this reason : " In fact, a fair dame at whose 
shrine I, the priest of the Nine, offer up the mcense of 
Parnassus; a dame whom the Graces ha e attired in 
witchcraft, and whom the Loves have armed with light- 
ning ; a fair one, herself the heroine of the song, insists 
on the amendment, and dispute her commands if you 
dare."] 



WHISTLE, and I'll come to you, my lad, 
whistle, and 1 11 come to you, my lad : 
Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad, 
whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad. 
But warily tent, when you come to court me, 
And come na unless the back-yett be a-jee; 
.Syne up the back-stile and l6>t naebody see, 
And come as ye were na comin' to me. 
And come as ye were na comin' to me. 



At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me, 
Gang by me as tho' that ye car'd na a file ; 
But steal me a blink o' your bonnie black e'e, 
Yet Icoi as ye were na lookin' at me. 
Yet look as ye were na lookin' at me. 



Ay vow and protest that ye care na for me. 
And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee; 
'But court na anither, tho' jokin' ye be, 
per fear that she wyle your fancy frae me 
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me. 



whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad, 
whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad : 
Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad, 
whistle, and I'll come to you, my lai. 



CCIII. 
ADOWN WINDING KITH. 

[" Mr. Clarke," says Burns to Thomsor, " begs you li 
give Miss Phillis a corner in your bo./k, as she is a par- 
ticular flame of his. She is a M'.if PJiillis M'Muidc 
sister to 'Bonnie Jean;' they aie both pupils of his." ' 
This lady afterwards became Mrs. Norman Loekhart, cl 
Carnwath.] 

I. 

Adown winding Nith I did wander. 

To mark the sweet flowers as they spring j 
Adown winding Nith I did wander, 

Of Phillis to muse and to sing. 
Awa wi' your belles and your beauties, 

They never wi' her can compare : 
Whaever has met wi' my Phillis, 

Has met wi' the queen o' the fair 



The daisy amus'd my fond fancy. 
So artless, so simple, so wild ; 

Thou emblem, said I, o' my Phillis, 
For she is simplicity's child. 



The rose-bud's the blush o' my charmer, 
Her sweet balmy lip when 'tis prest : 

How fair and how pure is the lily. 
But fairer and purer her breast. 



Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour. 
They ne'er wi' my Phillis can vie : 

Her breath is the breath o' the woodbine. 
Its dew-drop o' diamond, her eye. 



Her voice is the song of the morning, 

That wakes thro' the green-spreading grova 

When Phoebus peeps over the mountains, 
On music, and pleasure, and love. 



But beauty how frail and how fleeting. 
The bloom of a fine summer's day ' 

While worth in the mind o' my Phillis 
Will flourish without a decay. 




"0 WHISTLE. AND I'LL COME TO YOU, MY LAD." 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



2Sfi 



Awa wi' your belles and yoar beauties, 
They never wi' her can compare : 

Whaeyer has met wi' my Phillis 
ff as met wi' the queen o' the fair. 



COME, LET ME TAKE THEE. 

Air — " Cauld Kail." 

[Burns composed this lyric in August, 1793, and tradi- 
tion says it was produced by the charms of Jean Lorimer. 
" That tune, Cauld Kail," he says to Thomson, " is such 
i. favourite of yours, that I once more roved out yester- 
day fe"- a gloamin-shot at the Muses ; when the Muse 
thdV presides over the shores of Nith, or rather my old 
in-ipiriig. dearest nymph, Coila, whispered me the fol- 
iowi'\g,"] 



Comb, let me take thee to my breast, 

And pledge we ne'er shall sunder; 
And I shall spurn as vilest dust 

The warld's wealth and grandeur : 
And do I hear my Jeanie own 

That equal transports move her? 
I ask for dearest life alone, 

That I may live to love her. 



Thus in my arms, wi' a' thy charms, 

I clasp my countless treasure ; 
t'U seek nae mair o' heaven to share. 

Than sic a moment's pleasure : 
And by thy een, sae bonnie blue, 

I swear I'm thine for ever ! 
And on thy lips I seal my vow, 

And break it shall I never. 



DAINTY DAVIE. 

t>'roni the oid song of'Damtie Davie" Burns has 
IKWrowed only the title and the measure. The ancient 
■train records how the Rev. David Williamson, to escape 
the pursuit of the dragoons, in the time of the persecu- 
tion, was hid, by the devout Lady of Cherrytrees, in the 
same bed with her ailmg daughter. The divine lived to 
oave six wi's es beside the daughter of the Lady of Cher- 
wtrees and other childrer esides the one which his 



hiding from the dragoons produced When Oharleg th« 
Second was told of the adventure and its upshot, he ■ 
said to have exclaimed, " God's fish ! that beats me an* 
the oak : the man ought to be made a bishop."! 



Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers, 
To deck her gay, green-spreading boweM 
And now comes in my happy hours, 
To wander wi' my Davie. 

Meet me on the warlock knowe, 

Dainty Davie, dainty Davie, 
There I'll spend the day wi' you. 
My ain dear dainty Davi«. 



The crystal waters round us fa', 
The merry birds are lovers a'. 
The scented breezes round us blaw, 
A wandering wi' my Davie. 



When purple morning starts the hare. 
To steal upon her early fare. 
Then thro' the dews I will repair. 
To meet my faithfu' Davift 



When day, expiring in the west. 
The curtain draws o' nature's rest, 
i flee to his arms I lo'e best, 
And that's my ain dear Davie. 
Meet me on the warlock knowe, 

Bonnie Davie, dainty Davie, 

There I'll spend the day wi' you, 

My ain dear dainty Davifl, 



BRUCE TO HIS MEN AT BANNOCKBURN, 

[first version.] 

Tune — "-Hi?t, tuttie taitie. ■ 

[Syme of Ryedale states that this fine ode was joa. 
posed durmg a storm of rain and fire, among the wilds ot 
Glenken in Galloway: the poet himself gives anacconni 
much less romantic. In speaking of the air to Thomson 
he says, " There is a tradition which 1 have met with in 
many places in Scotland, that it was Robert Bruce'* 
march at the battle of Bannockburn. This thought, in 
my solitary wanderings, warmed me to a pitch of enthu 
siasm on the theme of liberty and independence, which! 
threw into a kind of Scottis)- ode, fitted to the a'r, tlj»» 



280 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



one might suppose to be the royal Scot's address to his 
heroic followers on that eventful morning." It was 
written in September, 1793.] 



Scots, wha hae wi' "Wallace bled, 
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led ; 
Welcome to your gory bed, 
Or to victorie ! 



Now's the day, and now's the hour ; 
See the front o' battle lour : 
See approach proud Edward's pow'r- 
Chains and slaverie ' 



Wha -will be a traitor-knave ? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave ? 
Wha sae base as be a slave ? 
Let him turn and flee ! 



Wha for Scotland's king and law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 
Freeman stand, or freeman fa', 
Let him follow me ! 



By oppression's woes and pains ! 
By our sons in servile chains ! 
We will drain our dearest veins, 
But they shall be free ! 



Lay the proud usurpers low ! 
Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
Liberty's in every blow ! — 
Let us do or die ! 



BANNOCKBURN. 

HOBERl BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY. 

[second version.] 

[Thomson acknowledged the charm which this martial 
»nd national ode had for him, but he disliked the air, and 
proposed to substitute that of Lewis Gordon in its place. 
Hut Lewis Gordon required a couple of syllables more 
jn every fourth line, which loaded the verse with exple- 
ttvea, and weakened the simple energy of the original : 
luras consented '.o the proper alterations, after a slight 



resistance ; but when Thomson, having succeeded If. 

this, proposed a change in the expression, no warrior of 
Bruce's day ever resisted more sternly the march of a 
Southron over the border. " The only line," savs the mif 
sician, " which I dislike in the whole song is, 

' Welcome to your gory bed :' 
gory presents a disagreeable image to the mind, and « 
prudent general would avoid saying anything to his scl • 
diers which might tend to make death more frightful th>i8 
it is." "My ode," replied Burns, " pleases me so much 
that I cannot alter it: your proposed alterations would, 
in my opinion, make it tame." Thomson cries out, like 
the timid wife of Coriolanus, " Oh, God, no blood !" 
w^hile Burns exclaims, like that Roman's heroic mother 
" Yes, blood ! it becomes a soldier more than gilt hil 
trophy." The ode as originally written was restored 
afterwards in Thomson's collection.' 



Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led ; 
Welcome to your gory bed, 
Or to glorious victorie ! 



Now's the day, and now's the hour — 
See the front o' battle lour ; 
See approach proud Edward's power- 
Edward ! chains and slaverie ! 



Wha will be a traitor-knave ? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave ? 
Wha sae base as be a slave ? 
Traitor ! coward ! turn and flee I 



Wha for Scotland's king and law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 
Freeman stand, or freeman fa', 
Caledonian ! on wi' me ! 



By oppression's woes and pams 1 
By our sons in servile chains I 
We will drain our dearest veins, 
But they shall be — shall be free J 



Lay the proud usurpers low ! 
Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
Liberty's in every blow ! 
Fotward ! let us do, or die 1 



OF EGBERT BURNS. 



281 



BEHOLD THE HOUR, 



Tune- 



Oran-gaoil: 



l< ' Tb e following eong I have composed for the Highland 
air that you tell me in your last you have resolved to 
ji ro 8 place to in your book. I have this moment finished 
tfce song, so you have it g'owing from tlie mint." These 
ar« tbc woj Is of Burns to Thomson : he might have 
iddsd t j.at the song was written on the meditated voyage 
01 Clariuda to the West Indies, to join her husband.] 



BEHOiiD the hour, the boat arrive ; 

Thou goest, thou darling of my heart ! 
Sever'd from thee can I •survive ? 

But fate has will'd, and we must part. 
I'll often greet this surging swell, 

Ton distant isle will often hail : 
•' E'en here I took the last farewell ; 

There, latest mark'd her vanish'd sail." 



Along the solitary shore 

While flitting sea-fowl round me cry, 
Across the rolling, dashing roar, 

I'll westward turn my wistful eye : 
Happy, thou Indian grove, I'll say, 

Where now my Nancy's path may be ! 
While thro' thy sweets she loves to stray, 

tell me, does she muse on me ? 



THOU HAST LEFT ME EVER. 

Tune — " Fee him, father." 

("1 do not give these verses," says Burns to Thorn- 
ton, " for any merit they have. I composed them at tha 
time in which ' Patie Allan's mither died, about the 
back o' midnight,' and by the lee side of a bowl of punch, 
Rrhich had overset every mortal in company, except the 
»autbols and the muse." To the poet's intercourse with 
musicians we owp some fine songs.] 

I. 
Thou hast left me ever, Jamie ! 

Thou hast left me ever ; 
Thou hast left me ever, Jamie ! 

Thou hast left me ever. 
Aften hast thou vow'd that death 

Only should us sever ; 
Now thou's left thy lass for ay — 

I maun see thee never, Jamie, 
I'll see thee never ! 



Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie ! 

Thou hast me forsaken ; 
Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie ! 

Thou hast me forsaken. 
Thou canst love anither jo, 

While my heart is breaking : 
Soon my weary een I'll close, 

Never mair to waken, Jamie, 
Ne'er mair to waken! 



AULD LANG SYNE. 

['•'Is not the Scotch phrase," Burns WTites to Mrs 
Dunlop, "Auld lang syne, exceedingly expressive! 
There is an old song and tune which has often thrilled 
through my soul : I shall give you the verses on the othei 
sheet. Light be the turf on the breast of the heaven-in- 
spired poet who composed this glorious fragment.' 
" The following song," says the poet, when he conumu 
nicated it to George Thomson, " an old song of the olden 
times, and which has never been in print, nor even is 
manuscript, until I took it down from an old man's sing- 
ing, is enough to recommend any air." These are stroog 
words, but there can be no doubt that, save for a line oi 
two, we o-wid the song to no other mmstrel than " min- 
strel Burns."] 



Should auld acquaintance be forgot. 

And never brought to min' ? 
Should auld acquaintance be forgot. 
And days o' lang syne ? 

For auld lang syne, my dear. 

For auld lang syne, 
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet. 
For auld lang syne ! 



We twa hae run about the braes, 

And pu't the gowans fine ; 
But we've wander'd mony a weary fooi, 

Sin' auld lang syne. 



We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, 
Frae mornin' sun till dine : 

But seas between us braid hae roar'd, 
Sin' auld lang syne. 



And here's a hand, my trusty fiere. 

And gie's a hand o' thine ; 
And we'll take a right guid willie-waughi. 

For auld lang syne. 



2S8 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



And surely ye'U be your pint-stowp, 

And surely I'll be mine ; 
And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, 
For auld lang syne. 

For auld lang syne, my dear, 

For auld lang syne, 
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, 
For auld lang syne I 



FAIR JEANY. 

Tune — " Saw ye my father ?" 

[In September, 1793, this song, as well as several 
others, was communicated to Thomson by Burns. " Of 
the poetry," he says, " I speak witli confidence : but th« 
musis is a business where 1 hint my ideas with the ut- 

vi>il lilBlMse."] 



Wheke are the joys I have met in the morning, 
That danc'd to the lark's early song ? 

Where is the peace that awaited my wand'ring, 
At evening the wild woods among ? 



t^o more a-winding the course of yon river, 
And marking sweet flow'rets so fair : 

r^o more I trace the light footsteps of pleasure, 
But sorrow and sad sighing care. 



In it that summer's forsaken our valleys. 

And grim, surly winter is near ? 
No, no, the bees' humming round the gay roses, 

Proclaim it the pride of the year. 



Fain would I hide, what I fear to discover. 
Yet long, long too well have I known. 

All that has caused this wreck in my bosom. 
Is Jeany, fair Jeany alone. 



rime cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal, 

Nor hope dare a comfort bestow : 
Come then, enamour'd and fond of my anguish. 

Enjoyment Fll seek in my woe. 



CCXII. 
DELUDED SWAIN, THE PLEASURE. 

[To the air of the "Collier's dochter " Burns bidi 
Thomson add the following old Bacchanal : it is slightly 
altered from a rather stiif original .] 



Deluded swain, the pleasure 
The fickle fair can give thee, 

Is but a fairy treasure^ 

Thy hopes will soon deceive the* 



The billows on the ocean. 
The breezes idly roaming, 

The clouds uncertain motion — 
They are but types of woman. 



! art thou not ashamed 
To doat upon a feature ? 

If man thou wouldst be named, 
Despise the silly creature. 



Go find an honest fellow ; 

Good claret set before thee : 
Hold on till thou art mellow. 

And then to bed in glory. 



NANCY. 

[This song was inspired by the charms «<" ClanM* 
In one of the poet's manuscripts the song Aonimencow 

thus • 

Thine am I, my lovely Kate,- ' 

Weil thou mayest discover 
Every pulse along my veins 
Tell the ardent lover. 
This change was tried out of compliment, it i<s beli«v«ft, 
to Mrs. Thomson; but Nancy ran more smoothly :n tk* 
even road of lyrical verse than Kate.] 



Thine am I, my faithful fair. 
Thine, my lovely Nancy ; 

Ev'ry pulse along my veins, 
Ev'ry roving fancy. 



To thy bosom lay my heart, 
There to throb and languish: 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



289 



Tho' despair had wrung its core, 
That would heal its anguish. 



Takb away those rosy lips, 
Kich with balmy treasure : 

Turn away thine eyes of love, 
Lest I die with pleasure. 

IV. 

\y hat is life when wanting love ? 

Night without a morning : 
Love's the cloudless summer sun. 

Nature gay adorning. 



HUSBAND, HUSBAND. 

Tune — "Jo Janet." 

["My Jo Janet," in the collection of Allan Ramsay, 
Wa8 in the poet's eye when he composed this song, as 
Borely as the matrimonial bickerings recorded by the old 
minstrels were in his mind. He desires Thomson briefly 
to tell him how he likes these verses : the response of 
Ihe musician was, " Inimitable "] 



Husband, husband, cease your strife. 

Nor longer idly rave, sir; 
Tho' I am your wedded wife. 

Yet I am not your slave, sir. 
" One of two must still obey, 

Nancy, Nancy; 



Is it man or woman, say. 
My spouse, Nancy ?" 



If 'tis still the lordly word. 

Service and obedience ; 
I'll desert my sov'reign lord. 

And so, good bye, allegiance ! 
" Sad will I be, so bereft, 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Yet I'll try to make a ahif+. 

My spouse, Nancy." 



My poor heart then break it vi»«» , 

My last hour I'm near it : 
When you lay me in the dust, 

Think, think, 1: ow you will bp'xr it. 

19 



" I will hope and trust in heaven, 

Nancy, Nancy; 
Strength to bear it will be given, 

My spouse, Nancy." 



Well, sir, from the silent dead*, 

Still I'll try to daunt you ; 
Ever round your midnight bed 

Horrid sprites shall haunt you, 
" I'll wed another, like my dear 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Then all hell will fly for fear. 

My spouse, Nancy." 



ccxv. 

WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE. 

Air — " The Sutor's J)ochter." 

[Composed, it is said, in honour of Janet Miller, c< 

Dalswinton, mother to the present Earl of Marr, and 
then, and long after, one of the loveliest women in thi 
south of Scotland.] 

I. 

Wilt thou be my dearie ? 

When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart, 

Wilt thou let me cheer thee ? 

By the treasure of my soul. 

That's the love I bear thee ! 

I swear and vow that only thcT 

Shall ever be my dearie. 

Only thou, I swear and vow 

Shall ever be my dearie. 



Lassie, say thou lo'es me ; 
Or if thou wilt no be my ain. 
Say na thou'lt refuse me : 
If it winna, canna be, 
Thou, for thine may choose m^ 
Let me, lassie, quickly die, 
Trusting that thou lo'es me. 
Lassie, Ist me quickly die. 
Trusting that thou lo'es me. 



CCXVI. 

BUT LATELY SEEN. 

Tune — " The winter of life." 

[This Kong was written for Johnson's Museum, in 
IV91 ; the air is East Indian : it was brought from Hindo- 
gtac by a particular friend of the poet. Thomson set the 
W >rds to the air of Gil Morrice : they are elsewliere set 
6f the tune of the Death of the Lj nnet.] ■ • 



But lately seen in gladsome green, 

The woods rejoiced the day ; 
Thro' gentle showers and laughing flowers, 

In double pride were gay : 
But now our joys are fled 

On winter blasts awa ! 
Yet maiden May, in rich array. 

Again shall bring them a'. 



But my white pow, nae kindly thowe 

Shall melt the snaws of age ; 
My trunk of eild, but buss or bield, 

Sinks in Time's wintry rage. 
Oh ! age has weary days, 

And nights o' sleepless pain ! 
Thou golden time o' youthfu' prime, 

Why comes thou not again ? 



CCXVII. 
TO MARY. 

Tune — ;" Could aught of song." 

[Thsse verses, inspired partly by Hamilton's very ten- 
der and elegant song, 

" Ah ! the poor shepherd's mournful fate," 
HI } some unrecorded " Mary" of the poet's heart, is in 
Ihe latter volumes of Johnson. " It is inserted in John- 
ion's Museum," says Sir Harris Nicolas, "with the 
name of Burns attached." He might have added that it 
irag sent hy Burns, writter wi'h his own hand.] 



Could aught of song declare my pains, 

Could artful numbers move thee. 
The muse should tell, in labour'd strains, 

Mary, how I love thee ! 
They who but feign a wounded heart 

May teach the lyre to languish ; 
But what avails the pride of art. 

When wastes the soul with anguish ? 



Then let the sudden bursting sigh 

The heart-felt pang discover ; 
And in the keen, yet tender eye, 

read th' imploring lover. 
For well I know thy gentle mind 

Disdains art's gay disguising ; 
Beyond what Fancy e'er refin'd, 

The voice of nature prizing. 



HERE'S TO THY HEALTH, Ml 

BONNIE LASS. 

Tune — '■'■ Laggan Burn." 

[" This song is in the Musical Museum, with Butrm 
nhme to it," says Sir Harris Nicolas. It is a song of til 
poet's early days, which he trimmed up, and sent t 
Johnson.] 



Here's to thy health, my bonnie lass, 
Gude night, and joy be wi' thee ; 

I'll come na mair to thy bower-door. 
To tell thee that I lo'e thee. 

dinna think, my pretty pink, 
But I can live without thee : 

1 vow and swear I dinna care 

How lang ye look about ye 



Thou'rt ay sae free informing me 

Thou hast na mind to marry ; 
I'll be as free informing thee 

Nae time hae I to tarry, 
I ken thy friends try ilka means, 

Frae wedlock to delay thee ; 
Depending on some higher chance — 

But fortune may betray thee 



I ken they scorn my low estate, 

But that does never grieve me ; 
But I'm as free as any he, 

Sma' siller will relieve me. 
I count my health my greatest wealth, 

Sae long as I'll enjoy it • 
I'll fear na scant, I'll bode nae waat, 

As lang's I get employment. 



But far off fowls hae feathers fair, 
And ay until ye try them • 



OF EGBERT BUlli^o. 291 


Tho' they seem fair, still have a care, 


V. 


They may p.ove waur than I am. [bright. 


When day is gane, and night is come, 


But at twal at nip-ht, when the moon shines 


And a' folk bound to sleep ; 


My dear, I'll come and see thee : 


I think on him that's far awa', 


For the man that Jo'es his mistress weel, 


The lee-lang night, and weep, 


Nae travel makes him weary. 


My dear ; 




The lee-lang night, and weep. 


CCXIX. 


CCXX. 


THE FAREWELL. 


STEER HER UP. 


Tune — ^'It was a^ for our rightfu" king." 


Tune — " steer her up, and haud her gaun '" 


["It seems very doubtful," says Sir Harris Nicolas, 
" how much, even if any part of this song was written by 
Burns : it occurs in the Musical Museum, but not with 


[Burns, in composing these verses, took the introdue 
tory lines of an older lyric, eked them out in his ow 
way, and sent them to tlie Museum.] 


his name." Burns, it is believed, rather pruned and 


I. 


beautified an old Scottish lyric, than composed this strain 


ratirely . Johnson received it from him in his own hand- 


STEER her up and haud her gaun — 


writing ] 


Her mother's at the mill, jo ; 


I. 


And gin she winna take a man, 


li was a' for our rightfu' king. 
We left fair Scotland's strand ; 

It was a' for our rightfu' king 
We e'er saw Irish land, 

My dear ; 


E'en let her take her will, jo : 
First shore her wi' a kindly kiss, 

And ca' another gill, jo, 
And gin she take the thing u,miss. 

E'en let her flyte her fik, jo. 


We e'er saw Irish land. 


II. 


II. 


steer her up, and be na blate, 


Now a' is done that men can do, 
And a' is done in vain ; 

My love and native land farewell, 
For I maun cross the main, 
My dear ; 
For I maun cross the. main. 


An' gin she take it ill, jo, 
Then lea'e the lassie till hjr fate, 

And time nae longer spiL, jo : 
Ne'er break your heart for ae rebute, 

But think upon it still, jo. 


That gin the lassie winna do't, 
Ye'U fin' anither will, jo. 


III. 
He turn'd him right, and round about 
Upon the Irish shore ; 






And gae his bridle-reins a shake. 




With adieu for evermore. 


CCXXI, 


My dear; 
With adieu for evermore. 


AY MY WIFE SHE DANG M 
Tune — " My wife she dang me." 


IV. 


[Other verses to the same air, belongiui; to the o 


The sodger from the wars returns. 

The sailor frae the main ; 
^ut I hae parted frae my love. 


times, are still remembered in Scotland : but they art 
only sang when the wine is in, and the sense of (<elica('.t 
out This song is in the Museum.] 


Never to meet again. 


I. 


My dear; 


AT my wife she dang me, 


Never t ■ meet again 


And aft my wife did bang me» 



292 THE POETICAL WORKS 


If ye gie a woman a' her will, 

Gude faith, she'll soon o'er-gang ye. 


CCXXI f . 


On peace and rest my mind was bent, 


HERE IS THE GLEN. 


And fool I was I married ; 




But never honest man's intent, 


Tune— «' Banks of Cree." 


As cursedly miscarried. 


[Of the origin of this song the poet gives the foilowini 




account. "1 got an air, pretty enough, composed b; 


II. 


Lady Elizabeth Heron, of Heron, whi-.h she calls < Thi 




Banks of Cree.' Cree is a beautiful romantic stream: 


Some sairie comfort still at last, 


and as her ladyship is a particular friend of mine, I haV« 


When a' their days are done, man ; 


written the following song to it."] 


My paius o' hell on earth are past, 


I. 


I'm sure o' bliss aboon, man. 


ay my wife she dang me, 


Here is the glen, and here the bower, 


And aft my wife did bang me. 


All underneath the birchen shade ; 


Tf ye gie a woman a' her will. 


The village-bell has told the hour— 


Gude faith, she'll soon o'er-gang ye. 


what can stay my lovely maid ? 




II. 
'-Tis not Maria's whispering call ; 
'Tis but the balmy-breathing gale, 






Mix'd with some warbler's dying fall 


COXXII. 


The dewy star of eve to hail. 


OH, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD 


III. 


BLAST. 


It is Maria's voice I hear ! 


Tune — ^' Lass o' Livistone." 


So calls the woodlark in the gr jve, 




His little, faithful mate to cheer, 


[Tradition says this song was composed in honour of 
Fessie Lewars, the Jessie of the pOet's death-bed strains. 


At once 'tis music — and 'tis love.* 


t is inserted in Tliomson's collection: variations occur 




n several manuscripts, bat they are neither important 


IV. 


lor curious.] 


And art thou come ? and at-i tfiou true 1 


I. 


welcome, dear to love and me! 


Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast. 


And let us all our vows renew 


On yonder lea, on yonder lea. 


Along the flow'ry D&tiKs of Cree. 


My. plaidie to the angry airt. 




I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee : . 
Or did misfortune's bitter storms 






Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, 




Thy bield should be my bosom, 


ccxxrv. 


Tc share it a', to share it a'. 






ON THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY. 


II. 


Tune — " O'er the hills," ^c. 


f)r were I in the wildest waste, • 




Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, 


[" The last evening," 29th of August, 1794, "as I ivai 
straying out," says Burns, " and thinking of O-er thd 


The desert were a paradise, 


hills and far away,' I spun the following stanzas for it 


If thou wert there, if thou wert there : 


I was pleased with several lines at first, but I own now 


Or were I monarch o' the globe, 
Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign, 


that it appears rather a flimsy business. I give you lean 


to abuse this song, but do it in the spirit of Christin 
naeekness." 


The brightest jewel in my crown 


Wftd be my queen, wad be my queen. 


I 




How can my poor he irt be glad. 




When absent from m/ sailor lad ? 
How can I the thought forego, 






He's oD +* %cas to meet the foe? 




ON THE SEA AND FAR AWAY. 



i 



oF KOBEKT BURNS. 29 


Let me wander, let me rove, 


Ca' them whare the burnie roweo 


Still my heart is with my love : 


My bonnie dearie ! 


Nightly dreams, and thoughts by day, 


Hark the mavis' evening sang 


ire with him that's far away. 


Sounding Cluden's woods amanffJ 


On the seas and far away. 


Then a faulding let us gang 


On stormy seas and far away ; 


My bonnie dearie 


' Nightly dreams, and thoughts by day. 




Are ay with him that's far away. 


II 




We'll gae down by Cluden side, 


II. 


Thro' the hazels spreading wide. 


When in summer's noon I faint, 


O'er the waves that sweetly glide 


As weary flocks around me pant. 


To the moon sae clearly. 


Haply in this scorching sun 




My sailors thund'riug at his gun; 


III. 


Bullets, spare my only joy! 


Yonder Cluden's silent towers, 


Bullets, spare my darling boy ! 


Where at moonshine midnight hours, 


Fate, do with me what you may — 


O'er the dewy bending flowers, ' 


Spare but him that's far away! 


Fairiea dance so cheery. 


III. 

At the starless midnight hour. 


IV. 

Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear ; 


When winter rules with boundless power: 


Thou'rt to love and heaven sae dear. 


As the storms the forest tear. 


Nocht of ill may come thee near, 


And thunders rend the howling air, 


My bonnie dearie. 


Listening to the doubling roar. 




Surging on the rocky shore. 


V. 


All I can — I weep and pray. 
For his weal that's far away. 


Fair and lovely as thou art, 
Thou hast stown my very heart; 




I can die — but canna part — 


IV. 


My bonnie dearie ! 


Peace, thy olive wand extend, 


Ca' the yowes to the knowes, 


And bid wild jvar his ravage end, 


Ca' them whare the heather growes ; 


Man with brother man to meet. 


Ca' them where the burnie rowes— 


And as a brother kindly greet : 


My bonnie dearie ! 


Then may heaven with prosp'rous gales, 
Fill my sailor's welcome sails. 






To my arms their charge convey — 


CCXXVI. 


My dear lad that's far away. 




On the seas and far away 


SHE SAYS SHE LOVES ME BEST OF A . 


On stormy seas and far away ; 


T\me—"Onac/h's Waterfall." 


Nightly dreams, and thoughts by day, 
Are ay with him that's far away. 


[The lady of the flaxen ringlets has already be«E -o- 
ticed : she is described in this song with the accurnsy Wi^ 




a painter, and more than the usual elegance of one , U it 
needless to add her name, or to say how fine her font 






and how resistless her smiles.] 


CCXXV. 




CA' THE YOWES. 


I. 

Sae flaxen were her ringlets. 


^liutue formed tiiis song upon an old lyne, an amended 


Her eyebrows of a darker hue. 


rersion of which ie had previously communicated to the 


Bewitchingly o'er-arching 


Huseum: he was lond of musing in the shadow of Lin- 


Twa laughin' een o' bonnie blue. 


udsn t( wers, and on the banks of Cluden Water.] 






Her smiling sae wyling, 


I. 


Wad make a wretch forget his woe ; 


Ca' the yowes to the knowes. 


What pleasure, what treasure, 


fla' liem whare the heather growes. 


Unto these rosy lips to grow • 



29t 



TPIE POETICAL WOi^KS 



Such was my Chloris' bonnie face, 
When first her bonnie face I saw ; 

\nd ay my Chloris' dearest charm, 
She says she lo'es me best of a'. 



Like harmony her motion ; 

Her pretty ankle is a spy, 
Betraying fair proportion, 

AVad mak a saint forget the sky. 
Sae warming, sae charming, 

Her faultless form and gracefu' air; 
Ilk feature — auld Nature 

Declar'd that she could do nae mair: 
Hers are the willing chains o' love. 

By conquering beauty's sovereign law; 
ind ay my Chloris' dearest charm, 

She says she lo'es me best of a'. 

III. 
Let others love the city, 

And gaudy show at sunny noon; 
Gie me the lonely valley, 

The dewy eve, and rising moon; 
Fair beaming, and streaming. 

Her silver light the boughs amang ; 
While falling, recalling, 

The amorous thrush concludes his sang; 
There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove 

By wimpling burn and leafy shaw, 
And hear my vows o' truth and love, 

And say thou lo'es me best of a' ? 



CCXXVII. 



RAW YE MY PHELY. 

[quasi dicat phillis.] 

Tune — " Wfien she came ben she bobbit." 

[The despairing swain in this song was Stephen 
;iarke, musician, and the young lady whom he per- 
>;aied Burns to accuse of inconstancy and coldness wag 

- • , M'Murdo ] 



i) s A (V ye my dear, my Phely ? 
t saw ye my dear, my Phely ? 
She's down i' the grove, she's wi' a new love I 
She winna come hame to her Willy. 



What says she, my dearest, my Phely ? 
Wnat says she, my dearest, my Phely ? 
She letd thee to wit that she has thee forgot 
■ind for ever disowns thee, her W'Uy. 



had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely! 
had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely! 
As light as the air, and fause as thou's fair, 
Thou's broken the heart o' thy Willy. 



CCXXVIII. 



HOW LANG AND DREARY IS THE NIGHT 

Tune — " Cauld Kail in Aberdeen." 

[On comparing this lyric, corrected for Thomson, witfc 
that in the Museum, it will be seen that the former hat 
more of elegance and order : the latter quite as mncb 
nature and truth : but there is less of the new than of tht 
old in both.] 

I. 

How lang and dreary is the night, 

When I am frae my dearie ; 
I restless lie frae e'en to morn. 
Though I were ne'er sae weary. 

For oh ! her lanely nights are lang ; 

And oh ! her dreanis are eerie ; 

And oh, her widow'd heart is sair. 

That's absent frae her dearie. 



When I think on the li-!;htsome days 
I spent wi' thee my dearie ; 

And now what seas between us roar- 
How can I be but eerie? 



How slow ye move, ye heavy hours ; 

The joyless day how dreary ! 
It was na sae ye glinted by. 
When I was wi' my dearie. 

For oh ! her lanely nights are lan^ ; 

And oh, her dreams are eerie ; 

And oh, her widow'd heart is saiT; 

That's absent frae her dearie. 



CCXXIX. 
LET NOT WOMAN E'ER COMPLAIN 

Tune — '■'■Duncan Gray.''' 

[" These English songs," thus complains the poet, U 
the letter which conveyed this lyrii to Thomson, " gra» 
vel me to dearth: I have not thai commiiiud of the lu 



OF ROBERT JBUR.'TS. 



29o 



|uage that I have of ray native tongue. I have been at 
Duncan Gray,' to dress it in English, but all I can do ie 
eplorably stupid. Fot instance:"] 



Lkj not woman e'er complain 

Of inconstancy in love ; 
Let not woman e'er complain 

Fickle man is apt to rove : 
Lock abroad through nature's range, 
Nature's mighty law is change ; 
Ladies, would it not he strange, 

Man should then a monster prove ? 

II. 

Mark the winds, and mark the skies ; 

Ocean's ebb, and ocean's flow : 
Sun and moon but set to rise, 

Round and round the seasons go: 
Why then ask of silly man 
To oppose great nature's plan ? 
We'll be constant while we can — 

You can be no more, you know. 



THE LOVER'S MORNING SALUTE 
TO HIS MISTRESS. 

Tune — " Deil tak the Wars." 

[Burns has, in one of his letters, partly intimated that 
this morning salutation to Chloris was occasioned by 
Eitting till the dawn at the punch-bowl, and walking 
past her window on his way home.] 



Bi/EEP'sT thou, or wak'stthou, fairest creature ? 

Rosy Morn now lifts his eye, 
Nuinbering ilka bud which nature 

Waters wi' the tears o' joy : 

Now through the leafy woods, 

A_Lid by the reeking floods, 
^iii nature's tenants freely, gladly stray; 

The lintwhite in his bower 

Chants o'er the breathing flower ; 

The lav'rock to the sky 

Ascends wi' sangs o' joy, 
While the sun and thou arise to bless the day. 



Phoebus gilding the brow o' morning, 
Banishes ilk darksome shade, 

tTkture gladdening and adorning ; 
Such t:0 me my lovely maid. 



Wlien absent frae my fair. 

The murky shades o' care 
With starless gloom o'ercast my sullen Bky 3 

But when, in beauty's light. 

She meets my ravish'd sight, 

When thro' my very heart 

Her beaming glories dart — 
'Tis then I wake to life, to light, and joj. 



CHLORIS. 

Air — " My lodging is on the cold ground." 

[The origin of tliis song is thus told \>y Burns to Thorn 
son. " On my visit the other day to my fair Chloris 
that is the poetic name of the lovely goddess of my inspi 
ration, she suggested an idea which I, on my return frors 
the visit, wrought into the following song." The poeti* 
elevation of Chloris is great : she lived, when her charm, 
faded, in want, and died all but destitute."] 



Mt Chloris, mark how green the groves 
The primrose banks how fair : 

The balmy gales awake the flowers, 
And wave thy flaxen hair. 



The lav'rock shuns the palace gay. 
And o'er the cottage sings ; 

For nature smiles as sweet, I ween, 
To shepherds as to kings 

III. 

Let minstrels sweep the skilfu' string 

In lordly lighted ha' : 
The shepherd stops his simple reed. 

Blythe, in the birken shaw. 



The princely revel may survey 
Our rustic dance wi' scorn ; 

But are their hearts as light as oura, 
Beneath the milk-white thorn ? 



The shepherd, in the flow'ry glen 
In shepherd's phrase will wc-a : 

The courtier tells a finer tale — 
But is his heart as true ? 



These wild-wood flowers I've pu'd, to deck 
That spotless breast o' thine : 

The courtier's gems may witness love — 
But 'tis na love like mine. 



CCXXXII. 
C H L E. 



Air- 



[Burns, despairing to fit some of tlie airs with such 
(rerses of original manufacture as Thomson required, for 
the English part of his collection, took the liberty of be- 
stowing a Southron dress on some genuine Caledonian 
lyrics. The origin of this song may be found in Ram- 
say's miscellany: the bombast is abated, and the whole 
mujh improved.] 



It was the charming month of May, 
When all the flow'rs were fresh and gay, 
One morning, by the break of day, 

The youthful charming Chloe 

From peaceful slumber she arose, 

Girt on her mantle and her hose. 

And o'er the flowery mead she goes, 

The youthful charming Chloe. 

Lovely was she by the dawn, 

Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, 
Tripping o'er the pearly lawn, 
The youthful charming Chloe. 



The feather'd people you might see, 
Perch'd all around, on every tree, 
In notes of sweetest melody 

They hail the charming Chloe ; 
Till painting gay the eastern skies, 
The glorious sun began to rise, 
Out-rivall'd by the radiant eyes 
Of youthful, charming Chloe. 
Lovely was she by the dawn. 

Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, 
Tripping o'er the pearly lawn. 
The youthful, charming Chloe. 



not mz.ke such a figure in poesie as that other species ol '' 
the passion, where love is liberty and nature law. Mn> 
sically speaking, the first is an instrument of which thj 
gamut is scanty and confined, but the tones inexpressibly 
sweet, while the last has powers equal to all the Intel 
lectual modulations of the human soul." It must Ix 
owned that the bard c^uld render very pretty Te&noiM fo 
his rapture about Jean Lorimer.] 



Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, 
Bonnie lassie, artless lassie. 
Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks ? 
Wilt thou be my dearie, ? 
Now nature deeds the flowery lea. 
And a' is young and sweet like thee ; 
wilt thou share its joy wi' me. 
And say thoul't be my dearie, ? 



And -when the welcome simmer showei 
Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower. 
We'll to the breathing woodbine -bower 
At sultry noon, my dearie, 

III. 
,When Cynthia lights wi' silver ray, 
The weary shearer's hameward way ; 
Thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray, 
And talk o' love, my dearie, 0. 

IV. 

And when the howling wintry blast 
Disturbs my lassie's midnight rest • 
Enclasped to my faithfu' breast, 
I'll comfort thee, my dearie, 0. 
Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, 
Bonnie lassie, artless lassie. 
Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks? 
Wilt thou be my dearie, ' 



LASSIE Wr THE LINT-WHITE LOCKS. 
Tune — " Rofhemurche's Rant." 



["Conjugal love," says the poet, " is a passion which 
deeply feel and highly venerate : but somehow it does 



OCXXXIV. 
FAREWELL, THOU STREAM. 

Air — " Nancy's to the greenwood gane." 

[This song w^as written in November, 1794 i Thosnio* 
pronounced it excellent.] 

I. 

Farewell, thou stream that winding; flews 

Around Eliza's dwelling ! 
mem'ry ! spare the cruel throes 

Within my bosom swelling : 



OF ROBERT BURNS, 29< 


Condemn'd to drag a hopeless chain, 


SHE. 


And yet in secret languish, 


As on the brier the budding rose 


To feel a fire in ev'ry vein, 


Still richer breathes and fairer blows 


Nor dare disclose my anguish. 


So in my tender bosom grows 


II. 


The love I bear my Willy. 


Lof e's veriest wretch, unseen, unknown. 


HE. 


I fain my griefs would cover ; 


The milder sun and bluer sky 


The bu-sting sigh, th' unweeting groan. 


That crown my harvest cares wi' joy, 


Betray the hapless lover. 


Were ne'er sae welcome to my eye 


] know thcu doom'st me to despair, 


As is a sight 0' Philly 


Nor wilt, nor canst relieve me ; 




B.it oh, Eliza, hear one prayer — 


SHE. 


For pity's sake forgive me ! 


The little swallow's wanton wing. 




Tho' wafting o'er the flowery spring, 


III. 


Did ne'er to me sic tidings bring, 


The music of thy voice I heard, 


As meeting o' my Willy. 


Nor wist while it enslav'd me ; 




I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear'd, 


HE. 


'Till fears no more had sav'd me : 


The bee that thro' the sunny hour 


The unwary sailor thus aghast. 


Sips nectar in the opening flower, 


The wheeling torrent viewing ; 


Compar'd wi' my delight is poor, 


'Mid circling horrors sinks at last 


Upon the lips o' Philly. 


In overwhelming ruin. 


SHE. 


^ 


The woodbine in the dewy weet 
When evening shades in silence meet, 






Is nocht sae fragrant or sae sweet 


ccxxxv. 


As is a kiss o' Willy. 


PHILLT, HAPPY BE THAT DAY. 


HE. 


Tune — " The Sow's Tail." 


Let Fortune's wheel at random rin, 


["This morning" (19th November, 1794), "though a 


And fools may tyne, and knaves may win 


teen blowing frost," Burns writes to Thomson, " in my 


My thoughts are a' bound up in ane. 


(valk before breakfast I finished my duet: whether I 


And that's my ain dear Philly. 


have uniformly succeeded, I will not say : but here it ia 




for vou, though it is not an hour old."] 


SHE. 


HE. 


What's a' joys that gowd can gie? 


Philit, happy be that day. 


I care nae wealth a single flie ; 


When roving through the gather'd hay. 


The lad I love's the lad for me, 


My youthfu' heart was stown away. 


And that's my ain dear Willy. 


And by thy charms, my Philly. 

SHE. 

WiLj, aj I bless the grove 






Where first I own'd my maiden love. 




WTiilst thcu didst pledge the powers above, 


CCXXXVI. 


To be my ain dear Willy. 






CONTENTED WP LITTLE. 


HE. 

As songsters of the early year 


Tune — " Lumps o' Pudding." 


Are ilka day mair sweet to hear, 


[Burns was an admirer of many songs which the moi. 


8o ilka day to me mair dear 


critical and fastidious regarded as rude and homely 


" Todlin Hame" he called an unequalled composition toi 


And charming is my Philly. 


wit and humour, and " Andro wi' bis cuttv Gun " tUt 



£98 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



work of a master. In the same letter, where he records 
those sentiments, he writes his own inimitable song, 
'' ( ontented wi' Little."] 



Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' nair, 
Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow and care, 
I gie them a skelp, as they're creepin alang, 
W ' a cog o' guid swats, and an auld Scottish 

sang. 

II. 
I wlijles claw the elbow o' troublesome thought ; 
But man is a sodger, and life is a faught : 
My mirth and guid humour are coin in-my pouch, 
And my freedom's my lairdship nae monarch 

dare totich. 



A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa', 
A night o' guid fellowship sowthers it a' : 
When at the blithe end o' our journey at last, 
Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has past ? 



Blind chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her 

way; 
Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jade gae : 
Come ease, or come travail ; come pleasure or 

pain ; 
My warst word is — " Welcome, and welcome 

again !" 



CCXXXVII. 



CANST THOU LEAVE ME THUS. 

Tune— "^oy's Wife:' 

[Wbea Burns transcribed (he foUowinor sonjr for Tliom- 
lon, on the 20th of November, 1794, he added, •• Well ! I 
ihink '.his, to be done in tWo or three turns across my 
room, and with two or three pinches of Irish blackguard, 
[s not BO far amiss You see I ara resc^'ved to have my 
Quantum of applause from somebody." The poet in this 
BOKg Ci^mplains of the coldness of Mrs. Riddel: the lady 
i»pli»d ir a strain equally tender -xoA forgiving.] 

I. 

Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy? 
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? 
"Well thou know'st my aching heart — 
And canst thou leave me thus for pity ? 
in this thy plighted, fond regard, 
Thus cruelly to part, my Katy? 
Is this thy faithful swain's reward — 
' An aching, broken heart, my Katy I 



Farewell ! and ne'er such sorrows tear 
That fickle heart of thine, my Katy i 
Thou may'st find those will love thee deauE— 
But not a love like mine, my Katy ! 
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? 
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? 
Well thou know'st my aching heart— 
And canst thou leave me thus for pity T 



CCXXXVIII. 

MY NANNIE'S AWA. 

Tune — " ThereHl neve? be peace." 

[Clarinda, tradition avers, was the inspirer of thii 
song, which the poet composed in December, 1794, foi 
the work of Thomson. His thoughts were often in Edin- 
burgh : on festive occasions, when, as Campbell beauti- 
fully says, " The wine-cup shines in light," he seldom 
forgot to toast Mrs. Mac] 

I. 

Now in her green mantle blythe nature arrays, ^ 
And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the 

braes, 
While birds warble welcome in ilka green shaw; 
But to me it's delightless — my Nannie's awa I 



The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlands 

adorn. 
And violets bathe in the weet o' the morn ; 
They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw, 
They mind me o' Nannie — and Nanny's awa ! 



Thou lav'rock that springs frae the dews of the 

lawn, 
The shepherd to warn o' the gray-breaking dawn, 
And thou mellow mavis that hails the night fa', 
Give over for pity — my Nannie's awa 1 



Come autumn sae pensive, in yellow ani gray, 
And soothe me with tidings o' nature's decay: 
The dark dreary winter, and wild driving snaW| 
Alane can delight me — now Nannie's awa 1 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



'194 



O WHA IS SHE THAT LOVES 
Tune- 



[•' This song-," says Sir Harris Nicolas, "is said, in 
r. omson's collection, to have been written for that work 
»y Burns : but it is not included in Mr. Cunningham's 
edition," If sir Harris would be so good as to look at 
page 245, vol. V., of Cunningham's edition of Burns, he 
W'il find the song : and if he will look at page 28, and 
page 193 of vol. III. of his own edition, he will find that 
he has not committed the error of which he accuses his 
fellow-editor, for he has inserted the same song twice. 
The same may be said of the song to Chloris, which Sir 
Harris has printed at page 312, vol. II., and at page 189, 
vol. III., and of " Ae day a braw wooer came down the 
lang glen," which appears both at page 224 of vol. II., 
»nd t page 183 of vol. III.] 



WHA is she that lo'es me, 

And has my heart a-keeping ? 
sweet is she that lo'es me, 
As dews of simmer weeping, 
In tears the rose-buds steeping ! 
that's the lassie of my heart, 

My lassie ever dearer ; 
that's the queen of womankind, 
And ne'er a ane to peer her. 



If thou shalt meet a lassie 

In grace and beauty charming, 

That e'en thy chosen lassie, 

Erewhile thy breast sae warming 
Had ne'er f'-G powers alarming. 



If thou hadst heard her talking. 
And thy attentions plighted, 

That ilka body talking, 

But her by thee is slighted. 
And thou art all delighted. 



If thou hast met this fair one ; 

When frae her thou hast parted, 
If eTcry other fair one, 
But her, thou hast deserted, 
ft.nd thou art broken-hearted ; 

that's the lassie o' my heart. 

My lassie ever dearer ; 
O that's the que?n o' womankina. 
And ne'er a ane to peer her. 



CALEDONIA. 

Tune — " Caledonian Hunt's Delight." 

[There is both knowledge of history and elegance ox 
allegory in this singular lyric: it was first printed t| 
Currie.] 



Theke was once a day — ^but old Time then -wu 
young — 
That Brave Caledonia, the chief of her line; 
From some of your northern deities sprung, 
(Who knows not that brave Caledonia*a 
divine ?) 
From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain, 
To hunt, or to pasture, or do what she 
would : 
Her heav'nly relations there fixed her reign. 
And pledg'd her their godheads to warrant if 
good. 



A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war. 

The pride of her kindred the heroine grew ; 
Her grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly swore 
"Whoe'er shall provoke thee, th' encounter 
shall rue ! " 
With tillage or pasture at times she would 
sport, 
To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling 
corn ; 
But chiefly the woods were her fav'rite resort. 
Her darling amusement, the hounds and the 
horn. 



Long quiet she reign'd ; till thitherward steers 

A flight of bold eagles from Adria's strand : 
Kepeated, successive, for many long years. 

They darken'd the air, and they plunder'd the 
land: 
Their pounces were murder, and terror theil 
cry, 

They'd conquer'd and ruin'd a world beside j 
She took to her hills, and her arrows let fly— 

The daring invaders they fled or they died. 



The fell harpy-raven took wing from the north, 
The scourge of the seas, and the dread of thR 
shore ; 

The wild Scandinavian boar issu'd forth 
To wanton in carnage, and wallow in gore : 



800 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



O'er countries and kingdoms their fury preyail'd, 
No arts could appease them, no arms could 
repel ; 

But brave Caledonia in vain they assail' d, 
As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie tell. 



The Cameleon-sa^ age disturbed her repose, 

With tumult, disquiet,. rebellion, and strife; 
Provok'd beyond bearing, at last she arose, 

And robb'd him at once of his hope and his 
life: 
The Anglian lion, the terror of France, 

Oft prowling, ensanguin'd the Tweed's silver 
flood: 
But, taught by the bright Caledonian lance, 

He learned to fear in his own native wood. 



Thus bold, independent, unconquer'd, and free. 

Her bright course of glory for ever shall run : 
For brave Caledonia immortal must be ; 

I'll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun : 
Rectangle-triangle, the figure we'll choose. 

The upright is Chance, and old Time is the 
base ; 
But brave Caledonia's the hypothenuse ; 

Then ergo, she'U match them, and match 
them always. 



CCXLI. 
LAY THY LOOF IN MINE, LAS 

Tune- — " Cordwainer'' s March.'''' 

[The air to which these verses were^ Written, is com- 
flicnly played at the Saturnalia of the shoemakers on 
Sing Crispin's day. Burns sent it to the Museum.] 

I. 

LAY thy loof in mine, lass, 
In mine, lass, in mine, lass ; 
And swear on thy white hand, lass. 

That thou wilt be my ain. 
A. slave to love's unbounded sway, 
fie aft has wrought me meikle wae ; 
But now he is my deadly fae, 

Unless thou be my ain. 

II. 
There's monie a lass has broke my rest, 
That for a blink I hae lo'ed best ; 
But thou art queen within my breast, 
For ever to remain. 



lay thy loof in mine, lass, 
In mine, lass, in mine, lass ; 
And swear on thy white hand, 
That thou wilt be my ain, 



THE FETE CHAMPETRS. 

Tune — ^^ Killiecrankie." 

[Written to introduce the name of Cunninghame, of 
Enterkiu, to the public. Tents were erected on tL 
banks of Ayr, decorated •w\t)x shrubs, and strewn witfc 
flowers, most of the names of note in the district were 
invited, and a splendid entertainment took place j but no 
dissolution of parliament follovred as was expected, ard 
the Lord of Enterkin, who was desirous of a seat among 
the " Commons," poured out his wine in vain.] 



WHA will to Saint Steplica's house, 

To do our errands there, man ? 
wha will to Saint Stephen's house, 

0" th' merry lads of Ayr, man ? 
Or will we send a man-o'-law ? 

Or will we send a sodner? 
Or him wha led o'er Scotland a' 

The meikle Ursa-Major? 



Come, will ye court a noble lord. 

Or buy a score o' lairds, man ? 
For worth and honour pawn their word, 

Their vote shall be Glencaird's, man? 
Ane gies them coin, ane gies them wine, 

Anither gies them clatter ; 
Anbank, wha guess' d the ladies' taste, 

He gies a Fete Champetre. 



When Love and Beauty heard the netfs, 

The gay green-woods amang, man ; 
Where gathering flowers and busking boweii 

They heard the blackbird's sang, man ; 
A vow, they seal'd it with a kiss, 

Sir Politicks to fetter, 
As theirs alone, the patent-bliss 

To hold a Fete Champetre. 



Then mounted Mirth, on gleesome wing. 
O'er hill and dale she flew, man ; 

Ilk wimpling burn, ilk crystal spring, 
Hk glen and shaw she knew, man : 



OF ROBEET BURNS. 



501 



She summon'd every social sprite 
That sports by wood or water, 

On th' bonny banks of Ayr to meet, 
And keep this Fete Champetre. 



Tauld Boreas, wi' his boisterous crew, 

Were bound to stakes like kye, man ; 
And Cynthia's car, o' silver fu', 

Clamb up the starry sky, man : 
Beflected beams dwell in the streams. 

Or down the current shatter ; 
The western breeze steals thro' the tree^ 

To view this Fete Champetre. 



How many a robe sae gaily floats ! 

What sparkling jewels glance, man! 
To Harmony's enchanting notes, 

As moves the mazy dance, man. 
The echoing wood, the winding flood, 

Like Paradise did glitter, 
When angels met, at Adam's yett, 

To hold their Fete Champetre. 

VII. 

WhenTolitics came there, to mix 

And make his ether-stane, man ! 
He circled round the magic ground, 

But entrance found he nane, man : 
He blush' d for shame, he quat his name, 

Forswore it, every letter, 
Wi' humble prayer to join and share 

This festive Fete Champetre. 



HERE'S A HEALTH. 

Tune — '^Here's a health to them thafs awa." 

[The Charlie of this song was Charles Pox ; Tammie 
ffp.s Lord Erskine ; and M'Leod, the maiden name of the 
Countess of Loudon, was then, as now, a name of influ- 
tase both in the Highlands and Low.ands. The buff and 
."iue of the Whigs had triumphed over the white rose of 
facobitism in the heart of Burns, when he wrote these 
•erses.] 

Heee's a health to them that's awa^ 
Here's a health to them that's awa ; 
And wha winna wish guid luck to our cause, 
May never guid luck be their fa' ! 



It's guid to be merry and wise. 
It's guid to be honest and true. 
It's guid to support Caledonia's cause, 
And bide by the buff and the blue. 



Here's a health to them that's awa. 

Here's a health to them that's awa, 

Here's a health to Charlie the chief of ths daft 

Altho' that his band be sma'. 

May liberty meet wi' success ! 

May prudence protect her frae evil ! 

May tyrants and tyranny tine in the mist, 

And wander their way to the devil ! 



Here's a health to them that's awa, 

Here's a health to them that's awa ; 

Here's a health to Tammie, the Norland laddi«k 

That lives at the lug o' the law ! 

Here's freedom to him that wad read, 

Here's freedom to him that wad write ! 

There's nane ever fear'd that the truth should 

be heard. 
But they wham the truth wad indite. 



Here's a health to them that's awa. 
Here's a health to them that's awa, 
Here's Chieftain M'Leod, a chieftain worth 

gowd, 
Tho' bred amang mountains o' snaw ! 
Here's a health to them that's awa. 
Here's a health to them that's awa; 
And wha winna wish guid luck to our cause. 
May never guid luck be their fa' ! 



IS THERE, FOR HONEST PO- 
VERTY. 

Tune — "For a' that, and A' that " 

[In this noble lyric Burns has vindicated the nataill 
right of his species. He modestly says to ThoiGscn, ' I 
do not give you this song for your Dook, let -nerely by 
way of vive la bagatelle; for the piece iS real.y not 
poetry, but will be allowed to be two or three jretty 
good prose thoughts inverted into rhyme." TiiuiHsn» 
took the song, but hazarded no praise.] 



Is there, for honest poverty. 

That hangs his head, and a' that' 



I 



B02 



THE POETICAL WOKKS 



The coward-slave^ we pass him by, 
We dare be poor for a' that! 

For a' that, and a' that, 
Our toils obscure, and a' that ; 

The rank is but the guinea's stamp, 
The man's the gcwd for a' that! 



What tho' on hamely fare we dine, 

Wear hoddin gray, and a' that ; 
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, 

A man's a man, for a' that ! 
For a' that, and a' that. 

Their tinsel show, and a' that ; 
The honest man, though e'er sae poor, 

Is king o' men for a' that! 

III. 
Ye see yon birkie, ca'd — a lord, 

Wha struts, and stares, and a' that ; 
Though hundreds worship at his word. 

He's but a coof for a' that : 
For a' that, and a' that, 

His riband, star, and a' that, 
The man of independent mind. 

He looks and laughs at a' that. 



A. king can make a belted knight, 

A marquis, duke, and a' that. 
But an honest man's aboon his might, 

Guid faith, he maunna fa' that ! 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Their dignities, and a' that. 
The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth. 

Are higher ranks than a' that. 



Then let us pray that come it may — 

As come it will for a' that — 
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth. 

May bear the gree, and a' that ; 
For a' that, and a' that, 

It 3 comin' yet for a' that, 
Iliat man to man, the warld o'er, 

Sha,U brothers be for a' that ! 



CCXLV. 
CRAIGIE-BURN WOOD. 



[Craigie-burn Wood was written for (Jeorge Thomson : 
*• heroine was ., »an I orimer How a'ten the blooming 



looks and elegant forms of very indifferent character! 
lend a lasting lustre to painting and poetry .1 



Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-buTB, 
And blithe awakes the morrow ; 

But a' the pride o' spring's return 
Can yield me nocht but sorrow. 



I see the flowers and spreading treea 
I hear the wild birds singing ; 

But what a weary wight can please, 
And care his bosom wiinging ? 



Fain, fain would I my griefs impart, 
Yet dare na for your anger ; 

But secret love will break my heart, 
If I conceal it langer. 



If thou refuse to pity me, 

If thou shalt love anither. 
When yon green leaves fade frae the tree, 

Around my grave they'll wither. 



CCXLVI. 
LASSIE, ART THOU SLEEPING YT!T. 

Tune — " Let me in this ae night." 

[The thoughts of Burns, it is said, wandered to the fail 
Mrs. Riddel, of Woodleigh Park, while he composed thil 
song for Thomson. The idea is taken from an old lyric, 
of more spirit than decorum.] 



Lassie, art thou sleeping yet. 
Or art thou waking, I w^ould wit ? 
For love has bound me hand and foot, 
And I would fain be in, jo. 
let me in this ae night, 

This ae, ae, ae night ; 
For pity's sake this ae night, 
rise and let me in, jo ! 



Thou hear'st the winter wind and weetJ 
Nae star blinks thro' the driving sleet: 
Tak pity on my weary feet. 
And shield me frae the rain, jo. 



OF ROBEET BURNS. 



30R 



Tho bitter blait that round me blaws, 
Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's ; 
The cauldness o' thy heart's the cause 
Of a' my grief and pain, jo. 
let me in this ae night. 

This ae, ae, ae night ; 
For pity's sake this ae flight; 
rise and let me in, jo ! 



O TELL NA ME 0' WIND AND RAIN. 

[The poet's thoughts, as rendered in the lady's answer, 
are, at all events, not bonowed from the sentiments ex- 
prsEMd by Mrs. Riddel, alluded to in song CCXXXVII.; 
UstTR she .s tender and forgiving: here she is stern and 
»o.l.3 



TELL na me o' wind and rain, 
Upbraid na me wi' cauld disdain ! 
Gae back the gate ye cam again, 
t winna let you in, jo. 

I tell you now this ae night. 

This ae, ae, ae night, 
And ance for a' this ae night, 
I winna let you in, jo ! 



The snellest blast, at mirkest hours, 
That round the pathless wand'rer poiirs. 
Is nocht to what poor she endures. 
That's trusted faithless man, jo. 



The sweetest flower that deck'd the 
:^ow trodden like the vilest weed : 
Irct simple maid the lesson read. 
The weird may be her ain, jo. • 



The Dird that charm'd his summer-day, 
^B now the cruel fowler's prey ; 
tet witless trusting woman say 
Fow aft her fate's the same, jo. 
I tell you now this ae night, 

This ae, ae, ae night ; 
And ance for a' this ae night, 
I frinna let you in jo ! 



THE DUMF*RIES VOLUNTEERS. 

Tune — ' Ptish about the jorum." 

[This national song was composed in April, 1795. TlH 
poet had been at a public meeting, where he was lem 
joyous than usual : as something had been expected fitnn 
him, he made these verses, when he went home, and sent 
them, with his compliments, to Mr. Jackson, editor o' 
the Dumfries Journal. The original, through the itmd- 
ness of my friend, James Milligan, Esq., is nrw b«fCT» 
me.] 

I. 

Does haughty Gaul invasion threat, 

Then let the loons beware, Sir, 
There's wooden walls upon our seaa. 

And volunteers on shore. Sir. 
The Nith shall run to Corsincon, 

And CrifFel sink in Solway, 
Ere we permit a foreign foe 

On British ground to rally ! 



let us not, like snarling tykes, 

In wrangling be divided ; 
Till slap come in an unco loon 

And wi' a rung decide it. 
Be Britain still to Britain true, 

Amang oursels united ; 
For never but by British hands 

Maun British wrangs be righted I 



Toe kettle o' the kirk and state, 

Perhaps a clout may fail in't ; 
But deil a foreign tinkler loon 

Shall ever ca' a nail in't. 
Our fathers' bluid the kettle bought, 

And wha wad dare to spoil it ; 
By "heaven ! the sacrilegious dog 

Shall fuel be to boil it. 



The wretch that wad a tyrant own, 

And the wretch his true-born brother, 
Who would set the mob aboon the throae, 

May they be damned together ! 
Who will not sing, "God save the King," 

Shall hang as high's the steeple ; 
But while we sing, " God save the King,* 

We'U ne'er forget the people. 



304 THE POETICAL WOKKS 




Can I cease to care ? 


CCXLIX. 


Can I cease to languish t 


ADDRESS TO THE WOOD-LARK. 


While my darling fair 


Tune — " Where'll bonnie Ann lie." 


Is on the couch of ansraish ? 


[The old song to the same air is yet remembered : bnt 


II. 


ihe humour is richer than the delicacy ; the same may be 


Every hope is fled, 


gaid of many of the fine hearty lyrics of the elder davs 


Every fear is terror ; 


of Caledonia. These verses were composed in May, 


<7!J5, for Thomson.! 


Slumber even I dread. 


I. 


Every dream is horror. 


STAT, sweet warbling wood-lark, stay ! 


III. 


Nor quit for me the trembling spray ; 


Hear me, Pow'rs divine ! 


A hapless lover courts thy lay, 


Oh, in pity hear me ! 


Thy soothing fond complaining. 


Take aught else of mine. 




But my Chloris spare me I 


II. 


Long, long the night. 


A^ain, again that tender part. 


Heavy comes the morrow, 


That I may catch thy melting art ; 


- While my soul's delight 


For surely that would touch her heart, 


Is on her bed of sorrow. 


Wha kills me wi' disdaining. 

III. 

Say, was thy little mate unkind, 
And heard thee as the careless wind? 




CCLI. 


Oh, nocht but love and sorrow join' d. 


CALEDONIA. 


Sic notes o' woe could wauken. 


Tune — " Sumours of Glen.'" 


IV. 


[Love of country often mingles in the lyric strains of 


Thou tells o' never-ending care; 


Burns with his personal attachments, and in few mora 
beautifully than in the following, written for Thomson 


0' speechless grief and dark despair : 


the heroine was Mrs. Burns.] 


For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair 




Or my poor heart is broken ! 


I. 


^ 


Theik groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands 




reckon. 




Where bright-beaming summers exalt the 






perfume ; 




Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green brockau 


CCL. 


Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow 


0>» CHLORIS BEING ILL. 


broom : • 




Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers, 


Tune — " At/ wakin', 'O." 


Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly 


[Ac old psiionce popular lyric suggested this brief and 


unseen ; 


lappy song for Thomson : some of the verses deserve to 


For there, lightly tripping amang the wild 


«a hell in remembrance. 


flowers. 


Ay waking, oh, 


A listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean. 


Waking ay and weary; 




Sleep I canna get 


II.' 


For thinking o' my dearie.] 






Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys, 


I. 


And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave; 


Long, long the night. 


Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the 


Heavy comes the morrow, 


proud palace. 


While my soul's delight 


What are they?— The haunt or the tyran« 


Is on her bed of sorrow. 


ap.d slave ! 



OF EGBERT BURNS. 305 


rhe slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling 


And, to the wealthy booby, 


fountains, 


Poor woman sacrifice ! 


The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain ; 


Meanwhile the hapless daughter 


He wanders as free as the winds of Ms moun- 


Has but a choice of strife ; 


tains. 


To shun a tyrant father's hate, 


Save love's willing fetters, the chains o' his 


Become a wretched wife. 


Tegn. 


II. 

The ravening hawk pursuing, 






The trembling dove thus fiiea. 


CCLH. 


To shun impelling ruin 


TWAS NA HER BONNIE BLUE EEN. 


Awhile her pinions tries ; 
Till of escape despairing. 


Tune — "■Laddie, lie near me." 


No shelter or retreat, 


[Though the lady who inspired these verses i» jailed 
Vlary by the poet, such, says tradition, was not her 


She trusts the ruthless falconer. 
And drops beneath his feet ' 


Dame : yet tradition, even in this, wavers, when it avers 




one while that Mrs. Riddel, and at another time that 


I 


Jean Lorini 3r was the heroine.] 




I. 

TwAS na her bonnie blue een was my ruin; 


CCLIV. 


Fair the' she be, that was ne'er my undoing : 




'Twas the dear smile when naebody did mind us, 


MARK YONDER POMP. 


'Tv"»s the bewitching, sweet stown glance o' 
'-indness. 


Tune — "Veil tak the wars" 




[Burns tells Thomson, in the letter enclosing this song, 


II. 


that he is in a high fit of poetizing, provided he is no( 


tSair do I fear that to hope is denied me, 
Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me ! 
But tho' fell fortune should fate us to sever, 
Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever. 


cured by the strait-waistcoat of criticism. " You see," 
said he, " how I answer your orders; your tailor cou,a 
not be more punctual ." This strain in honour of Chlorif 
is original in conception, but wants the fine lyrical flow 
of some of his other compositions.] 


III. 

Mary, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest. 


I. 

Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion 


And thou hast plighted me love o' the dearest ! 


Round the wealthy, titled bride : 


And thou'rt the angel that never can alter — 


But when compar'd with real passion, 


Sooner the sun in his motion would falter. 


Poor is all that princely pride. 




What arf^ the showy treasures ? 




What are the noisy pleasures ? 
The gay gaudy .glare of vanity and art . 






The polish'd jewel's blaze 


CCLIII. 


May draw the wond'ring gaze, 


HOW CRUEL ARE THE PARENTS. 
Tune — "John Anderson, my jo." 


And courtly grandeur bright 
The fancy may delight. 
But never, never can come near the heart 


[•<■ I am at tins moment," says Burns to Thomson, 




when ne sent him this song, " holding high converse with 


11. 


the Muses, and have not a word to throw away on a pro- 
_Eaie dog, such as you are." Yet there is less than the 


But, did you see my dearest Chloris 


poet's usual inspiratipp in this lyric, for it is altered from 


In simplicity's array ; 


an EnglisI nne.] 


Lovely as yonder sweet opening flower is, 


I. 


Shrinking from the gaze of day ; 


How cruel are the parents 


then the heart alarming. 


Who riches only prize, 


And all resistless charming. 



50b 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



In Love's delightful fetters she chains the wil- 
ling soul ! 

Ambition would disown 

The world's imperial crown, 

Even Avarice would deny 

His worship'd deity, 
And feel thro' every vein Love's raptures roll. 



CCLV. 

THIS IS NO MY AIN LASSIE. 

Tune — "This is no my ain house." 

f Thoug^h composed to the order of Thomson, and there- 
U (6 less likely to be the offspring of unsolicited inspira- 
hon, this is one of the happiest of modern songs. When 
the poet wrote it, he seems to have been beside the " fair 
t(ame at whose shrine," he said, "I, the priest of the 
^fite, offer up the incense of Parnassus."] 

THIS is no my ain lassie, 

Fair tho' the lassie be ; 

weel ken I my ain lassie, 

Kind love is in her e'e. 

I see a form, I see a face. 

Ye weel may wi' the fairest place : 

It wants, to me, the witching grace, 

The kind love that's in her e'e. 



She's bonme, blooming, straight, and tall, 
And lang has had my heart in thrall ; 
And ay it charms my very saul. 
The kind love that's in her e'e. 



A thief sae pawkie is my Jean, 
To steal a blink, by a' unseen ; 
But gleg as light are lovers' een, 
^hen kind love is in the e'e. 



It may escape the courtly sparks, 
ft may escape the learned clerks ; 
But weel the watching lover marks 
The kind love that's in her e'e- 
this is no my ain lassie, 
Fair tho' the lassie be ; 
weel ken I my ain lassie; 
Kind love is in her e'e. 



CCLVI. 

NOW SPRING HAS CLAD THE 
GROVE IN GREEN. 

TO MB. CUNNINGHAM. 

tCompoBed in reference to a love disappolntmect of Mi 
poet's friend, Alexander Cunningham, which aieo oc t« 
sioned the song beginning, 

" Had I a cave on some wild distant shore "\ 

I. 

Now spring has clad the grove in green 

And strew'd the lea wi' flowers : 
The furrow'd waving corn is seen 

Rejoice in fostering showers; 
While ilka thing in nature join 

Their sorrows to forego, 
why thus all alone are mine 

The weary steps of woe ? 



The trout within yon wimpling buiw 

Glides swift, a silver dart. 
And safe beneath the shady tkovn 

Defies the angler's art : 
My life was ance that carelws stream. 

That wanton trout was 1 , 
But love, wi' unrelenting beam, 

Has scorch'd my fountains dry. 



The little flow'ret's peaceful lot, 

In yonder cliff that grows, 
Which, save the linnet's flight, I wot 

Nae ruder visit knows. 
Was mine ; till love has o'er me past, 

And blighted a' my bloom, 
And now beneath the with'ring blast 

My youth and joy consume. 



The waken'd lav'rock warbling springr 

And climbs the early sky, 
Winnowing blythe her dewy wings 

In morning's rosy eye ; 
As little reckt I sorrow's power, 

Until the flow'ry snare 
0' witching love, in luckless hour, 

Made me the thrall o' care. 

V. 

had my fate been Greenland snows, 

Or Afric's burning zone, 
Wi' man and nature leagu'd my foes. 

So Peggy ne'er I'd known I 



0^ EOBExIT BURNS. 



301 



The wretch whase doom is, «' hope nae mair." 

What tongue his woes can tell ! 
Within whase bosom, save despair, 

Nae kinder spirits dwell. 



CCLVII. 

C CONNIE WAS YON ROSY BRIER 

I To Jean Loriraor, the heroine of this song, Burns pre- 
»«nte.: n copy of tiiB last edition of his poems, that of 
n'*i, with a dedicatory inscription, in whicn ne moral- 
'j:es upon her youth, her beauty, and steadfast friendship, 
tnd signs J-'^self Coila.] 



BONNIE was yon rosy brier, 

That blooms sae far frae haunt o' man, 
And bonnie she, and ah, how dear ! 

It shaded frae the e'enin sun. 



You rosebuds in the morning dew 
How pure, amang the leaves sae green ; 

But purer was the lover's vow 
They witness' d in their shade yestreen. 



All in its rude and prickly bower, 

That crimson rose, how sweet and fair ! 

But love is far a sweeter flower 
Amid life's thorny path o' care. 



Thejpathless wild, and wimpling burn, 
Wi' Chloris in my arms, be mine ; 

And I the world, nor wish, nor scorn; 
Its joys and griefs alike resign. 



CCLViri. 

FORLORN, MY LOVE, NO COM- 
FORT NEAR. 
Tune — " Let me in this ae night." 

["Hew do you like the foregoing?" Burns asks 
rhomsoa, after having copied this song for his collection. 
' I have written it within this hour : so much for the 
(seed of my Pegasus : but what say you to his bottom ? "] 

FoRLOKN, my love, no comfort near, 
Far, far from thee, I wander here ; 
Far, far from thee, the fate severe 
At which I most renine. love. 



Wert thou, love, but near me ; 
But near, near, near me ; 
How kindly thou wouidst cheer me, 
And mingle sighs with mine, love 



Around me scowls a wintry sity, 
Tliat blasts each bud of hope and joy ' 
And shelter, shade, nor home have I, 
Save in those arms of thine, love. 



Cold, alter' d friendship's cruel part, 

To poison Fortune's ruthless dart, 

Let me not break thy faithful heart, 

And seiy that fate is mine, love. 



But dreary the' the moments fleet, 
let me think we yet shall meet ! 
That only ray of solace sweet 
Can on thy Chloris shine, love. 
wert thou, love, but near me ; 
But near, near, near me ; 
How kindly thou wouldsl cheer me. 
And mingle sighs with mine, lovf 



CCLIX. 
LAST MAY A BRAW WOt)ER. 

Tune — " The Lothian Lassie." 

[" Gateslack," says Burns to Thomson, " is the uains 
of a particular place, a kind of passage among the Low 
ther Hills, on the confines of Dumfrieshire : Dalgarnock, 
is also the name of a romantic spot near the Nith, where 
are still a ruined church and burial-ground " To this, il 
may be added that Dalgarnock kirk-yard is the scena 
where the author of Waverley finds Old Mcrtality -epaif" 
iug the Cameronian grave-stones] 

L 

Last May a braw wooer cam down the lamg 
glen. 
And sair wi' his love he did deave me ; 

I said thwe was naething I hated like men, 
The deuce gae wi'm, to believe,, believe me, 
The deuce gae wi'm, to believe me 1 



He spak o' the darts in my bonnie black een, 
And vow'd for my love he was dying; 

I said he might die when he liked for Jean, 
The Lord forgie me for lying, for lying, 
The Lord forgie me for ly'nz ! 



508 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



^ weel-stocked mailen — himsel' for the laird — 
And marriage aif-hand, were his proffers : 

I never loot on that I kenn'd it, or car'd, 
But thought I may hae waur offers, waur 

offers, 
But thought I might hae waur offers. 

IV. 

But what wad ye think ? In a fortnight or 
less — 
The deil tak his taste to gae near her ! 
He up the Gateslack to my black cousin Bess, 
Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her, 

could bear her. 
Guess ye how, the jad ! I could bear her. 

IV. 

But a' the niest week as I fretted wi' care, 
I gaed to the tryste o' Dalgarnock, 

And wha but my fine fickle lover was there ! 
I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock, a warlock, 
I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock. 

II. 
But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink, 

Lest neebors might say I was saucy ; 
My wooer he caper'd as he'd been in drink, 

And vow'd I was his dear lassie, dear lassie. 

And vow'd I was his dear lassie. 

VII. 

I spier'd for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet, 

Gin she had recovered her hearin', 
^nd how my auld shoon suited her shauchled 
feet, 
But, heavens! how he fell a swearin', a 

swearin', 
But heavens ! how he fell a swearin'. 



He begged, for Gudesake, I wad be his wife, 
Or else I wad kill him wi' sorrow ; 

So, e'en to preserve the poor body in life, 
I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-mor- 
row, 
I think I m,aun wed him to morrow. 



CCLX. 

C H L R I S. 

Tune — " Caledonian Runt's Delight." 

J' 1 am at present," says Burns to Thomson, when he 
ornmunic<ite.t these ver»es, " quite occupied with the 



charming sensations of the toot)iache, bo have not a woi^ 
to spare — such is the peculiarity of the rhythm of tnis air 
that I iind it impossible to make anpther stanza to suit it.' 
This is the last of his strains in honour of Chloris. 



Why, why tell thy lover, 
Bliss he never must enjoy: 

Why, why undeceive him, 

And give all his hopes the lie ? 



why, while fancy raptured, slumbers, 
Chloris, Chloris all the theme. 

Why, why wouldst thou, cruel, 
Wake thy lover from his dream ? 



CCLXI. 

THE HIGHLAND WIDOW'S LAMENT. 

[This song is said to be Burns's version of a Gae. id 
lament for the ruin which followed the rebellioi of ihA 
year 1745 : he sent it to the Museum.] 

I. 

Oh ! I am come to the low countrie, 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
Without a penny in my purse. 

To buy a meal to me. 

li- 
lt was na sae in the Highland hills, 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
Nae woman in the country wide 
■ Sae happy was as me. 

III. 
For then I had a score o' kyc, 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
Feeding on yon hills so high, 

And giving milk to me. 

IV. 

And there I had three score o' yowes, 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
Skipping on yon bonnie knowes. 

And casting woo' to me. 

V. 

I was the happiest of a' the clan, 

Sair, sair, may I repine ; 
For Donald was the brawest lad, 

And Donald he was mine. 



Till Charlie Stewart cam' at last, 
Sae far to set us free ; 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



80» 



My DoD aid's arm was wanted then, 
For Svjotland and for me. 



Their waefu' fate -what need I tell, 
Right to the wrang did yield : 

My Donald and his country fell 
Upoi CuUoden's field. 

VIII. 

Oh ! I am come to the low countrie, 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
Nae woman in the world wide 

Sae wi'etched now as me. 



CCLXII. 
TO GENERAL DUMOURIER. 

PARODY ON ROBIN ADAIR. 

j^Burns wrote this " Welcome" on the unexpected 
'ectioQ of General Dumouiier.] 



f ou're welcome to despots, Dumourier ; 
STou're welcome to despots, Dumourier ; 

How does Dampiere do ? 

Aye, and Bournonville, too ? 
Why did they not come along with you, Du- 
mourier ? 

I will fight France with you, Dumourier ; 

I will fight France with you, Dumourier ; 
I will fight France with you, 
I will take my chance with you ; 

By my soul I'll dance a dance with you^ Dumou- 



rh°in let us fight about, Dumoxirier ; 
Then let us fiaht about, Dumour'er ; 

Then let us fight about. 

Till freedom's spark is out, 
Fhei. we'll be damn'd no doubt, Dumourier. 



CCLXIII. 

PEG-A-RAMSEY. 

Tune—" Cauld is the e^enin blast." 



l.MToai: of thjs song is ( Id : 
le MaeeuTi.] 



Burns gave it a brushing for 



Cault) is the e'enin' blast 
0' Boreas o'er the pool, 



And dawin' it is dreary 

When birks are bare at Yule 



bitter blaws the e'enin' blast 
When bitter bites the frost. 

And in the mirk and dreary drift 
The hills and glens are lost 



Ne'er sae murky blew the night 
That drifted o'er the hill, 

But a bonnie Peg-a-Ramse? 
Gat grist to her mill. 



CCLXIV. 
THERE WAS A BONNIE LASo. 



[A snatch of an old strain, trimmed up a little for tk 

Museum.] 



There was a bonnie lass. 
And a bonnie, bonnie lass. 

And she lo'ed her bonnie laddie dear- 
Till war's loud alarms 
Tore her laddie frae her arms. 

Wi' mony a sigh and tear. 



Over sea, over shore. 

Where the cannons loudly roar, 
He still was a stranger to fear; 

And nocht could him quell, 

Or his bosom assail, 
But the bonnie lass he lo'ed sae dear 



CCLXV. 



MALLI i MEEK, MALi^Y'S SW^^" 

[Burns, it is said, comnosed these verses, on ltie«t!L| 
a country girl, with her shoes and stockings to. her ap 
walking homewards from a Dumfries fair. He (va 
struck With her beauty, and as beautifully has harec- rd* 
it. This was his last communication to the Mitaunr.-l 



Mallt's meek, Mally's s-weet, 
Mally's modest and discreet, 

Mally's rare, Mally's fair, 
Mally's every way complete. 



510 THE POETICAL WORKS 


As I was walking up the street, 


But the sweet yellow darlings wi' Geordie int 


A barefit maid I chanc'd to meet ; 


prest. 


But the road was very hard 


The langer ye hae them — the mair they'M 


For that fair maiden's tender feet. 


carest. 




Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher. 


11. 


Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher ; 


ft were mair meet that those fine feet 


Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher, 


Were weel lac'd up in silken shoon, 


The nice yellow guineas for me. 


And 'twere more fit that she should sit, 




Within yon chariot gilt aboon. 

III. 

Ilcr yellow hair, beyond compare. 






Comes trinkling down her swan-white neck ; 


CCLXVII. 


And her two eyes, like stars in skies, 


JESSY. 


Would keep a sinking ship frae wreck. 


Tune — "jETere's a health to them that's awa." 


Mally's meek, Mally's sweet, 




Mally's modest and discreet. 


[Written in honour of Miss Jessie Lewars, now Mis 




Thomson. Her tender and daughter-like attention! 


Mally's rare, Mally's fair. 


soothed the last hours of the dying poet, and if immortalit) 


.Mally's every way complete. 


can be considered a recompense, she has been rewarded. 

I. 
Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear ; 


' 




Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear ; 


CCLXVI. 


Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers 


meet. 


HEY FOR A LASS Wl' A TOCHER. 


And soft as their parting tear — Jessy ! 


Tune — '■'■ Balinamona Ora." 


II. 


[Couuijunicated to Thomson, 17tli of February, 1796, to 


Altho' thou maun never be mine, 


pc |j limed as part of the poet's contribution to the Irish 
''iieludies : he calls it "a kind of rhapsody."] 


Altho' even hope is denied ; 




'Tis sweeter for thee despairing. 


1. 


. Then aught in the world beside — Jessy ! 


ilwA wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms, 




The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms: 


III. 


0, gie me the lass that has acres o' charms. 


I mourn through the gay, gaudy day, 


0, gie me the lass wi' the weel-stockit farms. 


As, hopeless, I muse on thy charms 


Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher. 


But welcome the dream o' sweet slumbei', 


Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher ; 


For then I am lockt in thy arms — Jessy,! 


Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher. 




The nice yellow guineas for me. 


I V. 




I guess by the dear angel smile, 


II. 


I guess by the love rolling e'e , ^ 


Vo IT beauty's a flower, in the morning that 


But why urge the tender confession 


blows, 


'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree ? — Jossy I 


And withers the faster, the faster it grows ; 


Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear ; 


But the rapturous charm o' the bonnie green 


Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear ; 


knowes, 


Thou art sweet as the smile when fond re t8« 


Hi spring they're new deckit wi' bonnie white 


meet. 


yowes. 

HI. 

And e'en when this beauty your bosom has blest, 


And soft as their parting tear — Jessy I 




The bri^^Ltest o' beauty may cloy when possest; 





OF ROBERT BURNS. 



31J 



CCLXVIII. 

FAIREST MAID ON DEVON BANKS. 

Tune — " Rothemurche." 

■ [Od I he I2th of July, 1796, as Burns lay dying at Brow, 
in tkt t?'. way, hin thoughts wandered to early days, and 
h\u cong; the ,ast he was to measure in this wprld, was 
S»iiieated to Charlotte Hamilton, the maid of the Devon.] 

I. 
Faikest maid on Devon banks, 

Crystal Devon, winding Devon, 
Wilt thou lay that frown aside, 

And smile as thou were wont to do ? 



Full well thou know'st I love thee, dear ' 
Could'st thou to malice lend an ear ! 
01 did not love exclaim "Forbear, 
Nor use a faithful lover so." 



Then come, thou fairest of the fair, 
Those wonted smiles, let me share ; 
And by thy beauteous self I swear, 
No love but thine my heart shall know. 
Fairest maid on Devon banks, 

Crystal Devon, winding Devon, 
Wilt thou lay that frown aside, 
And smile as thou were wont to do ? 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



TO WILLIAM BURNESS. 

[This was written by Burns in his twenty-third year, 
when lea ning flax-dressing in Irvine, and is the earliest 
of his le.<-t&-s which has reached us. It has much of the 
Bcripturai deference to paternal authority, and more of 
the Complete Letter Writer than we look for in an origi- 
nal miad.] 

Irvine, Dec. 27, 1781. 
Honoured Sir, 
I HAVE purposely delayed writing in the hope 
that I should have the pleasure of seeing you 
on New -Year's day; but work comes so hard 
upon us, that I do not, choose to be absent on 
that account, as well as for some other little 
reasons which I shall tell you at meeting. My 
.health is nearly the same as when you were 
here, only my sleep is a little sounder, and on 
the whole I am rather better than otherwise, 
though I mend by very slow degrees. Tlfe 
weakness of my nerves has so debilitated my 
sdndj thai I dare neither review past wants, nor 
look forward into futurity ; for the least anxiety 
OT perturbation in my breast produces most un- 
happy effects on my whole frame. Sometimes, 
indeed, when for an hour or two my spirits are 
alightened, I glimmer a little into futurity ; but 
my principal, and indeed my only pleasurable 
employment is looking backwards and forwards 
fei a moral and religious way ; I am quite trans- 



ported at the thought, that ere long, perhaps 
very soon, I shall bid an eternal adieu to all tha 
pains, and uneasiness, and disquietudes of thia 
weary life : for I assure you I am heartily tired 
of it ; and if I do not very much deceive my- 
self, I could contentedly and gladly resign it. 
" The soul, uneasy, and confined at home. 
Rests and expatiates in a life to come."i 
It is for this reason I am more pleased with the 
15th, 16th, and 17th verses of the 7th chapter 
of Revelations, than with any ten times aa 
many verses in the whole Bible, and would not 
exchange the noble enthusiasm with which they 
inspire me for all that this world has to offer 
As for this world, I despair of ever making a 
figure in it. I am not formed for the bustle of 
the busy, nor the flutter of the gay. I shall 
never again be capable of entering into such 
scenes. Indeed I am altogether unconcerned 
at the thoughts of this life. I foresee that pc 
verty and obscurity probably await me, and I 
am in some measure prepared, ani daily pre 
paring to meet them. I have but just time and 
paper to return you my grateful thanks for thfl 
lessons of virtue and piety you have given me, 
which were too much neglected at the time of 
giving them, but which I hope have been re- 
membered ere it is yet too late. Present mj 
dutiful respects to my mother, and my compli 

1 Pope. Bssay on Man 



S12 



GENERAL COEEESPONDENCE 



ments to Mr. and Mrs. Muir ; and with wishing 
you a merry New-Tear's day, I shall conclude. 
I am, honoured sir, your dutiful son, 

Robert Bueness. 
P. S. My meal is nearly out, but I am going 
to borrov? tUl I get more. 



TO MR. JOHN MURDOCH, 

SCHOOLMASTEK, 

STABLES-INN BUILDINGS, LONDON. 

[Jobn Murdoch, one of the poet's early teachers, re- 
moved from the west of Scotlimd to London, where he 
lived to a good old tige, and loved to talk of the pious 
William Burness and his eminent son.] 

Lochlea, I5th January, 1783. 
Deab, Sie, 

As I have an opportunity of sending you a 
letter without putting you to that expense 
which any production of mine would but ill 
repay, I embrace it with pleasure, to tell you 
that I have not forgotten, nor ever will forget, 
the many obligations I lie under to your kind- 
ness and friendship. 

I do not doubt, Sir, but you will wish to know 
what has been the result of all the pains of an 
indulgent father, and a masterly teacher ; and 
I wish I could gratify your curiosity with such 
a recital as you would be pleased with ; but 
that is what I am afraid will not be the case. 
I have, indeed, kept pretty clear of vicious 
habits ; and, in this respect, I hope, my conduct 
will not disgrace the education I have gotten ; 
but, as a man of the world, I am most miserably 
deficient. One would have thought that, bred 
as I have been, under a father, who has figured 
pretty well as un homme des affaires, I might have 
been, what the world calls, a pushing, active 
t'ellow ; but to tell you the truth. Sir, there is 
hardly anything more my reverse. I seem to 
be one sent into the world to see and observe ; 
ftBl I very easily compound with the knave who 
tncks me of my money, if there be anything 
original about him, which shows me human na- 
ture in a diflferent light from anything I have 
»een before. In short, the joy of my heart is 
to " study men, their manners, and their ways ;'.' 
and for this darling subject, I cheerfully sacri- 
fice every other consideration. I am quite in- 
lolett abcut those great concerns that set the 



bustling, busy sons of care agog ; and if I haT« 
to answer for the present hour, I am very easy 
with regard to anything further. Even the 
last, worst shift of tie unfortunate ard th* 
wretched, does not much terrify me . I know 
that even then, my talent for what country folks 
call " a sensible crack," when once it is sanc- 
tified by a hoary head, would procure me m 
much esteem, that even then — I would learn to 
be happy.' However, I am under no appre- 
hensions about that ; for though indolent, yet 60 
far as an extremely delicate constitution per- 
mits, I am not lazy ; and in many things, expe 
cially in tavern matters, I am a strict econo- 
mist ; not, indeed, for the sake of the money ; 
but one of the principal parts in my composition 
is a kind of pride of stomach ; and I scorn to 
fear the face of any man living : above every- 
thing, I abhor as hell, the idea of sneaking in a 
corner to avoid a dun — possibly some pitiful, 
sordid wretch, who in my heart I despise and 
detest. 'Tis this, and this alone, that endeara 
economy to me. In the matter of books, in- 
deed, I am very profuse. My favourite authors 
are of the sentimental kind, such as Shenstone, 
particularly^ his " Elegies ;" Thomson ;. " Man 
of Feeling" — a book I prize next to the Bible ; 
" Man of the World ;" Sterne, especially hia 
" Sentimental Journey ;" Macpherson's " Os- 
sian," &c. ; these are the glorious models after 
which I endeavour to form my conduct, and 'tia 
incongruous, 'tis'absurd to suppose that the man 
whose mind glows with sentiments lighted up 
at their sacred flame — the man whose heart dis- 
tends with benevolence to all the human race — 
he "who can soar above this little scene of 
things" — can he descend to mind the paltry con- 
cerns about which the terrsefilial race fret, and 
fume, and vex themselves ! how the glorious 
triumph swells my heart ! I forget that I am a 
poor, insignificant devil, unnoticed and un- 
known, stalking up and down fairs and mar- 
kets, when I happen to be in them reading a 
page or two of mankind, and " catching th« 
manners living as they rise," whilst the men of 
business jostle me on every side, as an idle en- 
cumbrance in their way. — But I dare say I have 
by this time tired your patience; so I shal? 
conclude with begging you to give Mrs. Mur- 
doch — not my compliments, for that is a mere 
common-place story ; but my warmest, kindest 

« The last shift alluded to here B/ust be the conaiiio* 
of an itinerant beggar. — CuRi ie 



OF KOBEET' BURNS. 



s:^ 



frsh^i for her -welfare; and accept of the same 
fcr yourself, from, 

Dear Sir, yours. — R. B. 



TO MR ^AMES BURNESS, 

WRITEK, MONTROSE.' 

[James Buvness, son of the poet's uncle, lives at Mont- 
tose, and, as maybe surmised, is now very old : fame has 
come to his house through his eminent cousin Robert, and 
dearer still through his own grandson, Sir Alexander 
Burnes, with whose talents and intrepidity the world is 
well ac4ua.Lted.] 

Lochlea, 2lst June, 1783. 
Dear Sir, 

My father received your favour of the 10th 
surrent, and as he has been for some months 
very poorly in health, and is in his own opinion 
(and indeed, in almost everybody's else) in a 
dying condition, he has only, with great diffi- 
culty, written a few farewell lines to each of 
his brothers-in-law. For this melancholy rea- 
son, I now hold the pen for him to thank you 
for your kind letter, and to assure you. Sir, that 
it shall not be my fault if my father's correspon- 
dence in the north die with him. My brother 
writes to John Caird, and to him I must refer 
you for the news of our family. 

I shall only trouble you with a few particu- 
lars relative to the wretched state of this 
country. Our markets are exceedingly high ; 
oatmeal 17d. and 18d. per peck, and not to be 
gotten even at that price. We have indeed been 
pretty well supplied with quantities of white 
peas from England and elsewhere, but that re- 
BO'irce is likely to fail us, and what will become 
9f us then, particularly the very poorest sort, 
Heaven only knows. This country, till of late, 
ras flourishing incredibly in the manufacture 
»f silk, iawn, and carpet-weaving ; and we are 
Still carrying on a good deal in that way, but 
S.nch reduced from what it was. We had also 
B fine trade in the shoe way, but now entirely 
Miined, and hundreds driven to a starving con- 
dition on account of it. Farming is also at a 

' This g-entleman (the son of an elder brother of my 
'Other's), when he was very young, lost his father, and 
kaving discovered in his father's repositories some of my 
'athei's letters, he requested that the correspondence' 
n ght be renewed. My father conti lued till the last year 
f hii life to fo-respsnd with his nephew, and it was 



very low ebb with us Our lands, generallj 
speaking, are mountainous and barren ; ana 
our landholders, full of ideas of farming gathered 
from the English and the Lotliians. and other 
rich soils in Scotland, make no allowance foi 
the odds of the quality of land, and conse- 
quently stretch us much beyond what in the 
event we will be found able to pay. We are 
also much at a loss for want of proper methods 
in our improvements of farming. Necessity 
compels us to leave our old schemes, and few 
of us have opportunities of being well informed 
in new ones. In short, my dear Sir, since the 
unfortunate beginning of this American war, 
and its as unfortunate conclusion, this country 
has been, and still is, decaying very fast. Even 
in higher life, a couple of our Ayrshire noble 
men, and the major part of our knights and 
squires, are all insolvent. A miserable job of a 
Douglas, Heron, and Co.'s bank, which no 
doubt you heard of, has undone numbers of 
them ; and imitating English and French, and 
otler foreign luxuries and fopperies, has ruined 
as many nj.ore. There is a great trade of smug- 
gling carried on along our coasts, which, how 
ever destructive to the interests of the kingdom 
at large, certainly enriches this corner of it, 
but too often at the expense of our morals. 
However, it enables individuals to make, at least 
for a time, a splendid appearance ; but Fortune, 
as is usual with her when she is uncommonly 
lavish of her favours, is generally even with them 
at the last ; and happy were it for numbers of 
them if she would leave them no tvorse than 
when she found them. 

My mother sends you a small present of a 
cheese, 'tis but a very little one, as o'Vir last year's 
stock is sold oflF; but if you oould fix on any cor- 
respondent in Edinburgh or Glasgow, we would 
send you a proper one in the season. Mrs. Black 
promises to take the cheese under her care so 
far, and then to send it to you by the Stirling 
carrier. 

I shall conclude this long letter with assuring 
you that I shall be very happy to hear from j ou, 
or any of our friends in your country, when op' 
portunity serves. 



afterwards kept up by my brother. Extracts from soma 
of xaj brother's letters tc .lis cousin are introduced, fol 
the purpose of exhibitii.^ -.he poet before he had attracted 
the notice of the public, and in his dorestic ftmily re- 
"ations afterwards. — Gilbert iJUKNS. 



514 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



My f{ith«r sends you, probably for the last 
time in this world, his warmest wishes for your 
welfare and happiness ; and my mother and the 
rest of the family desire to enclose their kind 
compliments to you, Mrs. Burness, and the rest 
of your family, along with those of, 
Dear Sir, 
Your affectionate Cousin, 
KB. 



TO MISS E. 



[The name of the lady to whom this and tl^e three sue • 
ceeding letters were addressed, seems to have been 
known to Dr. Currie, who introduced thrm in his first 
edition, but excluded them from hi%seconJ. They were 
restored by Gilbert Burns, without naming th# lady.] 

Lochlea, 1783. 
I VERILY believe, my dear E., that the pure, 
genuine feelings of love are as rare in the world 
as the pure genuine principles of virtue and 
piety. This I hope will account for the uncom- 
mon style of all my letters to you. By uncom- 
mon, I mean their being written in such a serious 
manner, which, to tell you the truth, has made 
me often afraid lest you should take me for 
some zealous bigot, who conversed with his 
mistress as he would converse with his minister. 
I don't know how it is, my dear, for though, 
except your company, there is nothing on earth 
gives me so much pleasure as writing to you, 
yet it never gives me those giddy raptures so 
much talked of among lovers. I have often 
thought that if a well-grounded affection be not 
really a part of virtue, 'tis something extremely 
akin to it. Whenever the thought of my E. 
warms my heart, every feeling of humanity, 
every principle of generosity kindles in my 
•breast. It extinguishes every dirty spark of 
■s alios and envy which are but too apt to infest 
ae. I grasp every creature in the arms of 
wsivefsal benevolence, and equally participate 
4q the pleasures of the happy, and sympathize 
with thfc EJS'-^ries of the unfortunate. I assure 
you, mj dear, I often look up to the Divine Dis- 
poser of events with an eye of gratitude for the 
blessing which I hope he intends to bestow on 
Bie in bestowing you. I sincerely wish that he 
ttJay bless my endeavours to make your life as 
eomfortable and happy as possible, both in 
sweetening the rougher parts of my natural tem- 



per, and bettering the unkindly circumstances 
of my fortune. This, my dear, is a passion, ai 
least in my view, worthy of a man, and I will 
add worthy of a Christian. The sordid earth* 
worm may profess love to a woman's person, 
whilst in reality his affection is centred in hel 
pocket ; and the slavish drudge may go a- wooing 
as he goes to the horse-market to choose on« 
who is stout and firm, and as we may say of ax 
old horse, one who will be a good drudge and 
draw kindly. I disdain their dirty, puny ideas,, 
I would be heartily out of humour with myself 
if I thought I were capable of iaaving so poor a 
notion of the sex, which were designed to crown 
the pleasures of society. Poor devils ! I don't 
envy them their happiness who have swch 
notions. For my part, I propose quite other 
pleasures with my dear partner. 

R. B. 



TO MISS E. 



Lochlea, 1783. 
My dear E. : 

I DO not remember, in the course of your ac- 
quaintance and mine, ever to have heard your 
opinion on the ordinary way of falling in love, 
amongst people of our station of life : I do not 
mean the persons who proceed in the way of 
bargain, but those whose affection is really 
placed on the person. 

Though I be, as you know very well, but a 
very awkward lover myself, yet as I have some 
opportunities of observing the conduct of others 
who are much better skilled in the affair of 
courtship than I am, I often think it is owing to 
lucky chance more than to good management, 
that there are not more unhappy marriages thas 
usually are. 

It is natural for a young fellow to like the ac- 
quaintance of the females, and customary foi 
him to keep them company when cocasica 
serves : some one of them is more agreeable to 
him than the rest ; there is something, he knows 
not what, pleases him, he knows not how, in 
her company. This I take to be what is called 
love with the greater part of us ; and I must 
own, dear E., it is a hard game, such a one as 
you have to play when you meet with such a 
lover. You cannot refuse but he is sincere, an(J 
yet though you use him ever so favourably, per- 



OF ROBEUT BUKNS. 



31J 



haps in a few months, or at farthest in a year 
or two, the same unaccountable fancy may make 
him as distractedly fond of another, whilst you 
jire qiiite forgot. I am aware that perhaps the 
next time I ha~« the pleasure of seeing you, 
you may bid me take my own lesson home, and 
tell me that the passion I have professed for 
yon is perhaps one of those transient flashes I 
aave been describing; but I hope, my dear E., 
you will do me the justice to believe me, when 
I assure you that the love I have for you is 
founded on the sacred principles of virtue and 
honour, and by consequence so long as you con- 
tinue possessed of those amiable qualities which 
first inspired my passion for you, so long must 
I continue to love you. Believe me, my dear, 
it is love like this alone which can render the 
marriage state happy. People may talk of 
flames and raptures as long as they please, and 
a warm fancy, with a flow of youthful spirits, 
may make them feel something like what they 
describe ; but pure I am the nobler faculties of 
the mind, with kindred feelings of the heart, 
can only be the foimdation of fi'iendship, and it 
has always been my opinion that the married 
life was only friendship in a more exalted degree. 
If you will be so good as to grant my wishes, 
and it should please Providence to spare us to 
the latest periods of life, I can look forward and 
see that even then, though bent down with 
wrinkled age ; even then, when all other worldly 
circumstances will be indifferent to me, I will 
regard my E. with the tenderest affection, and 
for this plain reason, because she is still pos- 
sessed of those noble qualities, improved to a 
much higher degree, which first inspired my 
affection for her. 

" O ! happy state when souls each other draw, 
When love is liberty and nature law."i 

I know were I to speak in such a style to many 
a girl, who thinks herself possessed of no small 
share of sense, she would think it ridiculous ; 
but the langun^e of the heart is, my dear E., 
die only courtship I shall ever use to you. 

When I look over what I have written, I am 
sensible it is vastly different from the Ordinary 
style of courtship, but I shall make no apology 
^I know your good nature will excuse what your 
good sense may see amiss. 

R. B. 

1 Pope. Eloisa to Abelard, 



VI. 
TO MISS E. 

Lochhft, 1783. 

I HAVE often thought it a peculiarly unlucl J 
circumstance in love, that though in every oxhet 
situation in life, telling the truth is not only th« 
safest, but actually by far the easiest way of 
proceeding, a lover is never under greater diffi- 
culty in acting, or more puzzled for expression, 
than when his passion is sincere, and his inten- 
tions are honourable. I do not think that it ia 
very diflficult for a person of ordinary capacity 
to talk of love and fondness, which are not felt, 
and to make vows of constancy and fidelity, which 
are never intended to be performed, if he be vil- 
lain enough to practise such detestable conduct : 
but to a man whose heart glows with the princi- 
ples of integrity and truth, and who sincerely 
loves a woman of amiable person, uncommon re- 
finement of sentiment and purity of manners — 
to such an one, in such circumstances, I can as- 
sure you, my dear, from my own feelings at this 
present moment, courtship is a task indeed. 
There is such a number of foreboding fears and 
distrustful anxieties crowd into mj mind when 
I am in your company, or when I sit down to 
write to you, that what to speak, or what to 
write, I am altogether at a loss. 

There is one rule which I have hitherto prac- 
tised, and which I shall invariably keep with you, 
and that is honestly to tell you the plain truth. 
There is something so mean and unmanly in the 
arts of dissimulation and falsehood, that I am 
surprised they can be acted by any one in so 
noble, so generous a passion, as virtuous love. 
No, my dear E., I shall never endeavour to gain 
your favour by such detestable practices. If 
you will be so good and so generous as to admJ^ 
me for your partner, your companion, your bv- 
8om friend through life, there is nothing on this 
side of eternity shall give me greater transport ; 
but I shall never think of purchasing your hand 
by any arts unworthy of a man, and I will add 
of a Christian. There is one thing, my deai*, 
which I earnestly request of you, and it is this ; 
that you would soon either put an end to my 
hopes by a peremptory refusal, or cure me of my 
fears by a generous consent. 

It would oblige me much if you would send 
me a line or two when convenient. I shall only 
add further that, if a behaviour regulated 
(though perhaps but very imperfectly) by tha 



S16 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



tules of honour and virtue, if a heart devoted to 
love and esteem you, and an earnest endeavour 
to promote your happiness ; if these are quali- 
ties you would wish in a friend, in a husband, I 
hope you shall ever find them in your real friend, 
and sincere lover. 

R. B. 



vn. 

TO MISS E. 

Lochlea, 1783. 

I OUGHT, in good manners, to have acknow- 
keiged the receipt of your letter before this 
time, but my heart was so shocked, with the 
contents of it, that I can scarcely yet collect my 
thoughts so as to write you on the subject. I 
will not attempt to describe what I felt on re- 
ceiving your letter. I read it over and over, again 
and again, and though it was in the politest lan- 
guage of refusal, still it was peremptory; "you 
were sorry you could not make me a return, but 
you wish me," what without you I never can 
obtain, "you wish me all kind of happiness." 
It would be weak and unmanly to say that, with- 
out you I never can be happy ; but sure I am, 
that sharing life with you would have, given it 
a relish, that, wanting you, I can never taste. 

Your uncommon personal advantages, and 
your superior good sense, do not so much strike 
me ; these, possibly, in a few instances may be 
met with in others ; bvit that amiable goodness, 
that tender feminine softness, that endearing 
sweetness of disposition, with all the charming 
offspring of a warm feeling heart — these I never 
again expect to meet with, in such a degree, is. 
this world. All these charming qualities, height- 
ened by an education much beyond anything I 
have ever jnet in any woman I ever dared to 
approach; tave made an impression on my heart 
ihat I do not think the world can ever efface. 
My imagination had fondly flattered myself 
with a wish, I dare not say it ever reached a 
hope, that possibly I might one day call you 
mine. I had formed the most delightful images, 
and my fancy fondly brooded over them ; but 
now I am wretched for the loss of what I really 
had no right to expect. I must now think no 
more of you as a mistress ; still I presume to 
ftsk to be admitted as a friend. As such I wish 
'■© be allowed to wait on you, and as I expect to 



remove in a few days a little further off, and 
you, I suppose, will perhaps soon leave thil 
place, I wish to see or hear from you soon ; an(J 
if an expression should perhaps escape me, 
rather too warm for friendship, I hope you wif 
pardon it in, my dear Miss — (pardon me the 
dear expression for once) * * * * 



VIII. 
TO ROBERT RIDDEL, ESQ. 

OP GLENEIDDEL. 

[These memoranda throw much light on the early dayi 
of Burns, and on the history of his mind and composi- 
tions. Robert Riddel, of the Friars-Carse, to whom 
these fragments were sent, was a good man as well as a 
distinguished antiquary.] 

Mt Deae Sir, 

On rummaging over some old papers I lighted 
on a MS. of my early years, in which I had de- 
termined to write myself out ; as I was placed 
by fortune among a class of men to whom my 
ideas would have been nonsense. I had meant 
that the book should have lain by me, in the 
fond hope that some time or other, even after I 
was no more, my thoughts would fall into the 
hands of somebody capable of appreciating their 
value. It sets off thus : — 

"Observations, Hints, Songs, Scraps cj- 
Poetry, &c., by Robert Bdrnkss : a man «vhc 
had little art in making money, and still leed ir 
keeping it; but was, howevei, a man of some 
sense, a great deal of honesty, and unbounded 
good-will to every creature, rational and irra- 
tional.— As he was but little indebted to scho- 
lastic education, and bred at a plough-tail, hia 
performances must be strongly tinctured with 
his unpolished, rustic way of' life; but as I be- 
lieve they are really his own, "it may be some 
entertainment to a curious observer of human 
nature to see how a ploughman thinks, unA 
feels, under the pressure of love, ambition, anx- 
iety, grief, with the like cares and passions^ 
which, however diversified by the modes and 
manners of life, operate pretty much alike, 1 
believe, on all the species." 

_" There are numbers in the world who do not want 
sense to make a figure, so much as :in opinion of iheii 
own abilities to put them upon tecording their ouserva- 
tions, and allowing them thesiiine import""fe whicl 
they do to those which appear in print." — Shens'oh* 



OF KOBEKT BUKNS. 



8t\ 



I Pleasing, when youth is long expired, to trace 

The forms our pencil, or our pen designed ! 
Such Wfis our youthful air, and shape, and face, 
Such the soft image of our youthful mind." — Ibid. 



April, 1783. 
Notwithstanding all that has been said against 
icve, respecting the folly and weakness it leads 
& young inexperienced mind into ; still I think 
i: in a great measure deserves the highest en- 
corainms that have been passed upon it. If any- 
thing on earth desc-ves the name of rapture or 
transport, it is the feelings of green eighteen in 
the company of the mistress of his heart, when 
she repays him with an equal return of affection. 

August. 
There is certaidly some connexion between 
love and music, and poetry ; and therefore, I 
have always thought it a fine touch of nature, 
that passage in a modern love-composition: 

" As towards her cot she jogged along. 
Her name was frequent in his song." 

For my own part I never had the least thought 
or inclination of turning poet till I got once 
heartily in love, and then rhyme and song were 
in a manner the spontaneous language of my 
heart. The following composition was the first 
of my performances, and done at an early period 
of life, when my heart glowed with honest warm 
simplicity ; unacquainted and uncorrupted with 
the ways of a wicked world. The performance 
is indeed, very puerile and silly ; but I am al- 
ways pleased with it, as it recalls to my mind 
those happy days when my heart was yet honest, 
and my tongue was sincere. The subject of it 
was a young girl who really deserved all the 
praises I have bestowed on her. I not only had 
this opinion of her then — but I actually think 
BO still, now that the spell is long since broken, 
and the enchantment at an end. 

once I lov'd a bonnie lass.' 

Lest tcy works should be thought below cri- 
ticvsm : or meet with a critic, who, perhaps, will 
not look on them with so candid and favour- 
able an eye, I am determined to criticise them 
Wyself. 

The first distich of the first stanza is quite too 
much in the flimsy strain of our ordinary street 
tallads: and, on the other hand, the second 

• See Songs and ballads. No 1 



distich is too much in the other extreme. Th< 
expression is a little awkward, and the senti- 
ment too serious. Stanza the second I am well 
pleased with ; and I think it conveys a fine idea 
of that amiable part of the sex — the agreeables ; 
or what in our Scotch dialect we call a eweet 
sonsie lass. The third stanza has a little '.f the 
flimsy turn in it ; and the third line has rather 
too serious a cast. The fourth stanza is a very 
indifferent one ; the first line, is, indeed, all in 
the strain of the second stanza, but the rest ia 
most expletive. The thoughts in the fifth stanza 
come finely up to my favourite idea — a sweet 
sonsie lass : the last line, however, halts a 
little. The same sentiments are kept up witk 
equal spirit and tenderness in the sixth stanza, 
but the second and fourth lines ending with 
short syllables hurt the whole. The seventh 
stanza has several minute faults ; but I re- 
member I composed it in a wild enthusiasm of 
passion, and to this hour I never recollect it but 
my heart melts, my blood sallies, at the remem 



Septe.rnder. 
I entirely agree with that judicious philoso- 
pher, Mr. Smith, in his excellent Theory of 
Moral Sentiments, that remorse is the most 
painful sentiment that can embitter the human 
bosom. Any ordinary pitch of fortitude may 
bear up tolerably well under those calamitiea, 
in the procurement of which we ourselves have 
had no hand ; but when our own follies, or 
crimes, have made us miserable and wretched 
to bear up with manly firmness, and at the sam« 
time have a proper penitent sense of our mis 
conduct, is a glorious effort of self-command. 

Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peac«, 
That press the soul, or wring the mmd yr^h 

anguish, 
Beyond comparison the worst are those 
That to our folly or our guilt we owe. 
In every other circumstance, the mind 
Has this to say, ' It was no deed of mine 
But when to all the evil of misfortune 
This sting is added — ' Blame thy foolish self I 
Or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse ; 
The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt- 
Of guilt, perhaps, where we've involved others , 
The young, the innocent, who fondly lov'd us, 
Nay, more, th»+ every iove their cause of ruin ' 



B18 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



burning hell ; in all thy store of torments, 
There's not a keener lash ! 

Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart 
Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime, 
Can reason down its agonizing throbs ; 
And, after proper purpose of amendment, 
Can firmfy force his jarring thoughts to peace ? 
happy! happy! enviable man! 
3 glorious magnan-mity of soul! 



March, 1784. 

I have often observed, in the course of my 
wperience of human life, that every man, even 
the worst, has something good about him; 
though very often nothing else than a happy 
temperament of constitution inclining him to 
this or that virtue. For this reason no man 
can say in what degree any other person, be- 
sides himself, can be, with strict justice, called 
wicked. Let any, of the strictest character for 
regularity of conduct among us, examine im- 
partially how many vices he has never been 
guilty of, not from any care or vigilance, but 
for want of opportunity, or some accidental cir- 
cumstance intervening ; how many of the weak- 
nesses of mankind he has escaped, because he 
was out of the line of such temptation; and, 
what often, if not always, weighs more than all 
the rest, how much he is indebted to the world's 
good opinion, because the world does not know 
all : I say, any man who can thus think, will 
scan the failings, nay, the faults and crimes, of 
mankind around him, with a brother's eye. 

I have often courted the acquaintance of that 
part of mankind, commonly known by the or- 
dinary phrase of blackguards, sometiqies far- 
ther than was consistent with the safety of my 
character ; those who by thoughtless prodiga- 
lity or headstrong passions, have been driven 
to ruin. Though disgraced by follies, nay 
sometimes, stained with guilt, I have yet found 
luaong them, in not a few instances, some of the 
noblest virtues, magnanimity, generosity, disin- 
terested friendship, and even modesty. 

April. 
As I am what the men of the world, if they 
knew such a man, would call a whimsical mor- 
tal, I have various sources of pleasure and en- 
joyment, which are, in a manner, peculiar to 



See Winter. A Dirge. Poem I. 



myself, or some here and there such other on* 
of-the-way person. Such is the peculiar plea* 
sure I take in the season of winter, more thaa 
the rest of the year. This, I believe, may be 
partly owirtg to my misfortunes giving my mind 
a melancholy cast : but there is something even 
in the — 

" Mighty tempest, anl the hoary waste 
Abrupt and deep, stretch'd o'er the buried earth," — 

which raises the mind to a serious sublimity, 
favourable to everything great and noble. Thero 
is scarcely any earthly object gives me more— 
I do not know if I should call it pleasure — but 
something which exalts me, something which 
enraptures me — than to walk in the sheltere»i 
side of a wood, or high plantation, in a cloudy 
winter-day, and hear the stormy wind howling 
among the trees, and raving over the plain. It 
is my best season for devotion: my mind is 
wrapt up in a kind of enthusiasm to Him, who, 
in the pompous language of the Hebrew bard, 
" walks on the wings of the wind." In one of 
these seasons, just after a train of misfortunes, 
I composed the following : — 



The wintry west extends his blast. 



Shenstone finely observes, that love- 
writ without any real passion, are the most 
nauseous of all conceits ; and I have often 
thought that no man can be a proper critic of 
love-compo«!ition, except he himself, in one or 
more instances, have been a warm votary of thia 
passion. As I hi-ve been all along a miserable 
dupe to love, and hsive been led into a thousand 
weaknesses and follies bv it. for that reason I put 
the more confidence in my critical skill, in dia- 
tinguishing foppery and conceit from real paa- 
sion and nature. Whether the following song 
will stand the test, I will not pretend to say, 
because it is my own ; only I can say it was, at 
the time, genuine from the heart: — 

Behind yon hills, where Lugar flows. ^ 

March, 1784. 
There was a certain period of my life that my 
spirit was broke by repeated losses and disasters 
which threatened^ and indeed effected, the utter 
ruin of my fortune. My body, too, was attacked 
by that most dreadful distemper, a hypochon- 
dria, or confirmed melancholy. In this wretched 

8 Son* XIV. 



OF ROBEIIT BURNS 



318 



state,, the recollection of which makes me shud- 
der, I hung my harp on the willow trees, ex- 
<»ept in some lucid intervals, in one of which I 
somposed the following : — 

thou Great Being ! what Thou art.^ 



April. 
The following song is a wild rhapsody, misera- 
bly deficient in Tersification ; but as the senti- 
ment? are the genuine feelings of my heart, for 
that reason I have a particular pleasure in con- 
ning it over. 

My father was a.farmer 

Upon the Carrick border, 0.^ 

April. 
I think the whole species of young men may 
be naturally enough divided into two grand 
classes, which I shall call ^ the ffrave and the 
merry; though, by the by, these terms do not 
with propriety enough express my ideas. The 
grave I shall cast into the usual division "of those 
who are goaded on by the love of money, and 
those whose darling wish is to make a figure 
in the world. The merry are the men of plea- 
sure of all denominations ; the jovial lads, who 
have too much fire and spirit to have any settled 
rule of action ; but, without much deliberation, 
follow the strong impulses of nature : the 
thoughtlef-.s, the careless, the indolent — in par- 
ticular he who, with a happy sweetness of natu- 
ral temper, and a cheerful vacancy of thought, 
steals through life — generally, indeed, ib. poverty 
and obscurity ; but poverty and obscurity are 
only evils to him who can sit gravely down and 
make a repining comparison between his own 
situation and that of others ; and lastly, to grace 
the quorum, such are, generally, those whose 
k^tis are capable of all the towerings of genius, 
and whose hearts are warmed with all the de- 
licacy of feeling. 

Augu9t. 
The foregoing was to have been an elaborate 
dissertation on the various species of men ; but 
as I cannot please myself in the arrangement 
of my ideas, I must wait till farther experience 
and nicer observation throw more light on the 
subject. — In the mean time I shall set down the 
Mlowing fragment, which, as it is the genuine 



Po«m IX. 



2 Song V. 



language of my heart, will enable anybody tf 
determine which of the classes I belong to 

There's nought but care on ev'ry han', 
In ev'ry hour that passed, 0.» 

As the grand end of human life is to cultivatt 
an intercourse with that Being to whom wa 
owe life, with every enjoyment that rendetsra 
life delightful ; and to maintain an integritiva 
conduct towards our fellow-creatures ; that so, 
by forming piety and virtue into habit, we majf 
be fit members for that society of the pious and 
the good, which reason and revelation teach us to 
expect beyond the grave, I do not see that the 
turn of mind, and pursuits of such a one as the 
above verses describe — one who spends the 
hours and thoiights which the vocations of the 
day can spare with Ossian, Shakspeare, Thom- 
son, Shenstone, Sterne, &c. ; or, as the maggot 
takes him, a gun, a fiddle, or a song to make or 
mend ; and at all times some heart's-dear bon- 
nie lass in view — I say I do not see that the 
turn of mind and pursuits of such an one are 
in the least more inimical to the sacred interests 
of piety and virtue, than the even lawful, bus- 
tling and straining after the world's riches and 
honours : and I do not see but he may gain 
heaven as well — which, by the by, is no meap 
consideration — who steals through the vale of 
life, amusing himself with every little flower 
that fortune throws in his way, as he, who strain- 
ing straight forward, and perhaps spattering 
all about him, gains some of life's little eminen- 
cies, where, after all, he can only see and be 
seen a little more conspicuously than what, in 
the pride of his heart, he is apt to term the 
poor, indolent devil he has left behind him. 

August. 
A Prayer, when fainting fits, and other alamn- 
ing symptoms of a pleurisy or some other Amk- 
gerous disorder, which indeed still threat^ni 
me, first put nature on the alarm : — 

thou unknown, Almighty Cause 
Of all my hope and fear !* 

Aiiguii 
Misgivings in the hour of despondency anil 
prospect of death : — 

Why am I loth to l^ave this earthly 8cen*» • 
3 Song XVII. 4 PoemX. 6 Poem TL. 



«20- 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



EGOTISMS F-ROM MY OWN SENSATIONS. 

May. 
I don't well know what is the reason of it, 
but somehow or other, though I am when I have 
a mind pretty generally beloved, yet I never 
could get the art of commanding respect. — 
I imagine it is owing to my being deficient in 
what Sterne calls " that understrapping virtue 
of discretion." — I am so apt to a lapsus linguce, 
jhat I sometimes think the character of a cer- 
tain great man I have read of somewhere is very 
much apropos to myself — that he was a com- 
pound of great talents and great folly. — N. B. 
To try if I can discover the causes of this 
wretched infirmity, and, if possible, to mend it. 



August, 
However I am pleased with the works of our 
Scotch poets, particularly the excellent Ramsay, 
and the still more excellent Fergusson, yet I am 
hurt to see other places of Scotland, their towns, 
rivers, woods, haughs, &c., immortalized in such 
celebrated performances, while my dear native 
country, the ancient bailieries of Carrick, Kyle, 
and Cunningham, famous both in ancient and 
modern times for a gallant and warlike race of 
nhabitants ; a counti-y where civil, and parti- 
cularly religious liberty have ever found their 
first support, and their last asylum ; a country, 
the birth-place of many famous philosophers, 
soldiers, statesman, and the scene of many im- 
portant events recorded in Scottish history, par- 
ticularly a great many of the actions of the 
glorious Wallace, the Saviour of his country; 
yet, we have never had one Scotch poet of any 
eminence, to make the fertile banks of Irvine, 
the romantic woodlands and sequestered scenes 
on Ayr, and the heathy mountainous source 
and winding sweep of Doon, emulate Tay, Forth, 
Ettrick, Tweed, &c. This is a complaint I 
would gladly remedy, but, alas ! I am far un- 
equal to the task, both in native genius and 
education. Obscure I am, and obscure I must 
be, though no young poet, nor young soldier's 
neart, ever beat more fondly for fame than 
mine— 

" And if theie is no other scene of being 
Wnere my insatiate wish may have its fill, — 
This something at my heart that heaves for room, 
nly best, my dearest part, was made in vain " 



September.. 
There is a great irregularity in the old Scoich 
songs, a redundancy of syllables with respect 
to that exactness of accent and measure that 
the English poetry requires, but whicli glides 
in, most melodiously, with the respective tunea 
to which they are set. For instance, the fine 
old song of "The Mill, Mill, 0,'" to give it a 
plain prosaic reading, it halts prodigiously out 
of measure; on the other hand, the song set 
to the same tune in Bremner's collection gf 
Scotch songs, which begins "To Fanny fair 
could I impart," &c., it is most exact measure, 
and yet, let them both be sung before a real 
critic, one above the biases of prejudice, but a 
thorough judge of nature, — how flat and spirit- 
less will the last appear, how trite, and lamely 
methodical, compared with the wild warbling 
cadence, the heart-moving melody of the first ! 
— This is particularly the case with all those 
airs which end with a hypermetrical syllable. 
There is a degree of wild irregularity in many 
of the compositions and fragments which are 
daily sung to them by my compeers, the com- 
mon people — a certain happy arrangement of 
old Scotch syllables, and yet, very frequently, 
nothing, not even like rhyme or sameness of 
jingle, at the ends of the lines. This has made 
me sometimes imagine that perhaps it might be 
possible for a Scotch poet, with a nice judicious 
ear, to set compositions to many of our most 
favourite airs, particularly that class of them 
mentioned above, independent of rhyme alto- 
gether. 



There is a noble sublimity, a heart-melting 
tenderness, in some of our ancient ballads, 
which show them to be the work of a masterly 
hand : and it has often given me many a heart- 
ache to reflect that such glorious old bards — 
bards who very probably owed all their talents 
to native genius, yet have described the exploits 
of heroes, the pangs of disappointment, and the 
meldiigs of love, with such fine strokes of 
nature — that their very names (0 how mortify- 
ing to a bard's vanity !) are now " buried among 
the wreck of things which were." 

ye illustrious names unknown! who could 
feel so strongly and describe so well : the lasi;, 
the meanest of the muses' train — one who, 
though far inferior to your flights, yet eyed 



• The Mill. Mill, O," is by All in Ramsay. 



OF ROBE-RT BURINS. 



321 



your path, and with trembling ■wing -would 
nometimes soar after you — a poor rustic hard 
nnkno-wn, pays this sympathetic pang to your 
memory! Some of you tell us, with all the 
charms of verse, that you have been unfortunate 
in the world — unfortunate in love : he, too, has 
felt the loss of his little fortune, the loss of 
friends, and, worse than all, the loss of the 
woman he adored. Like you, all his consola- 
tion was- his muse : she taught him in rustic 
measures to complain. Happy could he have 
done it with your strength of imagination and 
flow of -verse ! S^ay the turf lie lightly on your 
bones ! and may ycu now enjoy that solace and 
rest which this worM rarely gives to the heart 
^uned to all the feelings of poesy and love ! 

September. 

The following fragment is done something in 
nnitation of the manner of a noble old Scottish 
piece, called M'Millan's Peggy, and sings to the 
tune of Galla Water. — My Montgomery's Peggy 
was my deity for six or eight months. She had 
been bred (though, as the world says, -without 
any just pretence for it) in a style of life rather 
elegant ; but, as Vanbrugh says in one of Ms 
comedies, my "d — d star found me cat" thsTe 
too : -^''v though I began the affair merely in a 
gaiei^ A,e cccur, or, to tell the truth, which Trill 
(Scarcely be believed, a vanity of showing my 
parts in courtship, particularly my abilities at a 
billet-doux, which I always piqued myself upon, 
made me lay siege to her ; and when, as I always 
• do in my foolish gallantries, I had fettered my- 
self into a very warm affection for her, she told 
me one day, in a flag of truQe, that her fortress 
had been for some time before the rightful pro- 
perty of another; but, with" the greatest friend- 
ship and politeness, she offered me every alliance 
except actual possession. I found out after* 
wards that what she told me of a pre-engage- 
ment was really true ; but it cost me some 
heartaches to get rid of the affair. 

T have even tried to imitate in this extempore 
thii-g that irregularity in the rhymes, which, 
when judiciously done, has such a fine effect on 
the ear. » 

"Altho' my bed were in yof muir."* 



1 Song VIII. 



September. 
There is another fragment in imitation of an 
old Scotch song, well known among the country 
ingle-sides. — I cannot tell the name, neither of 
the song nor the tune, but they are in fine unison 
-with one another. — By the way, these old Scot- 
tish airs are so nobly sentimental, that; when one 
-would compose to them, to "south the tune," as 
our Scotch phrase is, over and over, is the readi- 
est way to catch the inspiration, and raise the 
bard into that glorious enthusiasm so strongly 
characteristic of our old Scotch poetry. I shall 
here set down one verse of the piece mentioned 
above, both to mark the song and tune I mean, 
and likewise as a debt I owe to the author, aa 
the repeating of that verse has lighted up my 
flame a thousand times : — 

When clouds in skies do come together 
To hide the brightness of the sun. 

There will surely be some pleasant weathei 
When a' their storms are past and gone 

Though fickle fortune has deceived me. 
She promis'd fair and perform'd but ill ; 

Of mistress, friends, and wealth bereav'd me. 
Yet I bear a heart shall support me still. 

I'll act with prudence as far as I'm able. 

But if success I must never find. 
Then come misfor-tune, I bid thee welcome, 

I'll meet thee with an undaunted mind. 

The above was an extempore, under the pres- 
sure of a heavy train of misfortunes, which, in- 
deed, threatened to undo me altogether. It was 
just at the close of that dreadful period men- 
tioned already, and though the weather has 
brightened up a little with me, yet there has 
always been since a tempest brewing round me 
in the grim sky of futurity, which I pretty plainly 
see will some time or other, perhaps ere long, 
overwhelm me, and drive me into some dolefu] 
dell, to pine in solitary, squalid wretchedness.- 
However, as I hope my poor country muse, who 
all rustic, awkward, and unpolished as she ia 
has more charms for me than any .<Dther of tho 
pleasures of life beside — as I hope she will not 
then desert me, I may even then learn to 6e, if 
not happy, at least easy, and south a sang to 
soothe my misery. 

'Twas at the same time I set about composing 
an air in the old Scotch style. — I am not musi- 



2 Alluding to the misfortunes lie feelingly lauifiata Swi 
lore this verse. (This is the autlior's'note.^ 



322 



GENERAL CORRESPO .V D ji^NCE 



aal scholar enough to prick down my tune pro- 
perly, 80 it can never see the light, and perhaps 
'tis no great matter ; but the following were the 
•erses I composed to suit it • "— 

raging fartune's withering blast 
Has laid my leaf full low, ! ' 

The tune consisted of three parts, so that the 
»tH)ve verses just went through the whole air. 

October, 1785. 

If ever any young man, in the vestibule of the 
world, chance to throw his eye over these pages, 
let him pay a warm attention to the following 
observations, as I assure him they are the fruit 
of a poor devil's dear-bought experience. — I 
have literally, like that great poet and great 
gallant, and by consequence, that great fool, 
Solomon, "turned my eyes to behold madness 
and folly." Nay, I have, with all the ardour 
of a lively, fanciful, and whimsical imagination, 
accompanied with a warm, feeling, poetic heart, 
shaken hands with their intoxicating friendship. 

In the first place, let my pupil, as he tenders 
his own peace, keep up a regular, warm inter- 
course with the Deity. * * * * 

This is all worth quoting in my MSS., and 
more than all. R. B. 



IX. 



TO MR. J'AMES BURNESS, 

MONTROSE. 

[The elder Burns, whose death this lett» intimates, 
U ^s buried in the kirkyard of AUoway, with tombstone 
hi lording his -worth.] 

Lochlea, 17th Feb. 1784 
Deap Cousin, 

i WOULD have returned you my thanks for 
f-^MT kind favour of the 18th of December 
j<?on(?r, had it .not been that I waited to give 
f ct an account of that melancholy event, which, 
fit some time past, we have from day to day 
expected. 

On the 13th current I lost the best of fathers. 
Though, to be sure, we have had long warning 
of the impending stroke ; still the feelings of 
nature claim their part, and I cannot recollect 
*lie tender endearments and parental lessons of 

I Soivll 



the best of friends and ablest of instruttors, 
without feeling what perhaps the calmer dictate* 
of reason would partly condemn. 

I hope my father's friends in your country 
will not let their connexion in this place die 
with him. For my part I shall ever with plea- 
sure — with pride, acknowledge my. connexion 
with those who were allied by the ties of blooiJ 
and friendship to a man whose memory I sbai 
ever honour and revere. 

I expect, therefore, my dear Sir, you will n'>t 
neglect any opportunity of letting ne hear from 
you, which will very much oblige, 

My dear Cousin, yours sincerely, 
R B. 



TO JAMES BURNESS, 

MONTROSE. 

[Mrs. Buchan, the forerunner in extravag^ance and ab- 
surdity of Joanna Southcote, after attempting to fix het 
tent among the hills of the west and the vales of the 
Nith, finally set up her staff at Auchengibben-Hill, in 
Galloway, where she lectured her followers, and held 
out hopes of their reaching the stars, even in >Ji:s lite. 
She died ea'-ly : one or two of her people, as she cailed 
them, survived till within these half-dozen years.] 

ilossgiel, August, 1784. 
We have been surprised with one of the most 
extraordinary phenomena in the moral world 
which, I dare say, has happened in the course of 
this half century. We have had a party of Pres- 
bytery relief, as they call themselves, for some 
time in this country. A pretty thi-iving society 
of them has been in the burgh of Irvine for 
some years past, till about two years ago, a 
Mrs. Buchan from Glasgow came among them, 
and began to spread some fanatical notions of 
religion among them, and, in a short time, 
made many converts; and, among others, thelf 
preacher, Mr. Whyte, who, upon that account, 
has been suspended and formally deposed bj hii 
brethren. He continued, however, to preach .n 
private to his party, and was supported, bolh 
he and their spiritual mother, as they affect to 
call old Buchan, by the- contributions of th« 
rest, several of whom were in good circum- 
stances ; till, in spring last, the populace rose and 
mobbed Mrs. Buchan, and put her out of the 
town ; on which all her followers voluntarily 
quitted the place likewise, and with such preci- 
pitation, that many of them never shut tii«»u 



OF ROBERT BURNri. 



32% 



doors beh.nd them ; one left a washing on the 
green, another a cow bellowing at the crib with- 
out food, or anybody to mind her, and after 
leveral stages, they are fixed at present in the 
neighbourhood of Dumfries. Their tenets are 
a strange jumble of enthusiastic jargon ; among 
others, she pretends to give them the Holy Ghost 
by breathing on them, whioh she ijoes with pos- 
turea and practices that are scandalously inde- 
»ent they have likewise disposed of all their 
tlfects, and hold a community of goods, and 
live nearly an idle life, carrying on a great 
farce of pretended devotion in barns and woods, 
where they lodge and lie all together, and hold 
likewise a community of women, as it is ano'ther 
of their tenets that they can commit no moral 
Bin. I am personally acquaiu'ted with most of 
them, and I can assure you the above mentioned 
are facts. ^ 

This, my dear Sir, is one of the many in- 
stances of the folly of leaving the guidance of 
Bound reason and common sense in matters of 
religion. 

Whenever we neglect or despise these sacred 
jionitors, the whkasical notions of a perturbated 
brain are taken for the immediate influences 
of the Deity, and the wildest fanaticism, and 
the most inconstant absurdities, will meet with 
abettors aid converts. Nay,I have often thought, 
that the more out-of-the-way and ridiculous the 
fancies are, if once they are sanctified under the 
sacred name of religion, the unhappy mistaken 
votaries are the more firmly glued to them. 

E. B. 



XI. 

TO MISS 



LThis has generally been printed among the early letters 
of Burns. Cromek thinks that the person addressed was 
the " Peggy" of the Common-place Book. This is ques- 
tioned by Robert Chambers, who, however, leaves both 
Usme and date unsettled.] 

My dear CotTNTRTWOMAN, 

I AM so impatient to show you that I am once 
more at peace with you, that I send yju the book 
I mentioned directly, rather than wait the un- 
certain time of my seeing you. I am afraid I 
have mislaid or lost Collins' Poems, which I 
promised to Miss Irvin. If I can find them, I 
will forward them by you; if not, you must 
apologize for me. 

I know you will laugh at it when I tell you 
Aat jcini piano and you together have played 



the deuce somehow about my heart. My brvjaM 
has been widowed these many months, and I 
thought myself proof against the fascinating 
witchcraft; but I am afraid you will "feelingly 
convince me what I am." I say, I am afraid, 
because I am not sure what is the matter with 
me. I have one miserable bad symptom ; wheu 
you whisper, or look kindly to another, it givoil 
me a draught of damnation. I have a kind of 
wayward wish to be with you ten minutes by 
yourself, though what I would say, Heaven 
above knows, for I am sure I knqw not. I have 
no formed design in all this ; but just iu tha 
nakedness of my heart, write you down a mere 
matter-of-fact story You may perhaps give 
yourself airs of distance on this, and that will 
completely cure me ; but I wish you would not : 
just let us meet, if you please, in the old beatet 
way of friendship. 

I will not subscribe myself your humble ser- 
vant, for that is a phrase, I think at least fifty 
miles oS from the heart; but I will conclude 
with sincerely wishing that the Great Protecto? 
of innocence may shield you from the barbed 
dart of calumny, and hand you by the covert 
snare of deceit. R. B. 



TO MR. JOHN RICHMOND, 

OF E D I N B U E a H. 

[John Richmond, writer, one of the poet's Mauchlir.a 
friends, to whom we are indebted for much valuable in 
formation concerning Burns and his productions — Conu» 
was the Mauchline carrier.! 

Mossgid, Feb. 17, 1786. 
Mt dear Sir, 
I have not time at present to upbraid you 
for your silence and neglect ; I shall only say 1 
received yours with great pleasure. 1 have 
enclosed you a piece of rhyming ware for yo'JT 
perusal. I have been very busy with the muses 
since I saw you, and have composed, among 
several others, " The Ordination," a poem on 
Mr. M'Kinlay's being called to Ealmarnock; 
" Scotch Drink," a poem ; " The Cotter's Satur- 
day Night;" "An Address to the Devil," &c. I 
have likewise completed my poem on the 
"Dogs," but have not shown it to the world. 
My chief patron now is Mr. Aiken, in Ayr, whff 
is pleased to express great approbation of mj 
works. Be so good as send me Fergusson, bt 



524 



aENElvAi. OOEflESPONDENCE 



Conn el, and I will remit you the money. I have 
no news to acquaint you with about Mauchline, 
they are just going on in the old way. I have 
gome very important news with respect to my- 
pelf, not the most agreeable — news that I am 
BUiv, you cannot guess, but I shall give you the 
particulars another time. I am extremely 
happy with Smith ; he is the only friend I 
kave now in Mauchline. I can scarcely forgive 
your long neglect of me, and I beg you will let 
me hear from you regvilarly by Connel. If 
you would act your part as a friend, I am sure 
neither good nor bad fortune should strange or 
alter me. Excuse haste, as I got yours but 
yesterday. 

I am, my dear Sir, 

Yours, 

E. B. 



XIII. 
TO ME. JOHN KENNEDY, 

DUMFRIES HOUSE. 

[Who the John Kennedy was to whom Burns addessed 
, tills note, enclosing " The Cotter's Saturday night," it is 
now, perhaps, vain to inquire : the Kennedy to whom 
Mr. Cobbett introduces us was a Thomas — perhaps a re- 
lation.] 



SlE, 



March, 1786. 



1 HAVE done myself the pleasure of comply- 
ing with your request in sending you my Cot- 
tager. — If you have a leisure minute, I should 
be glad you would copy it, and return me either 
the original or the transcript, as I have not a 
copy of it by me, and I have a friend who wishes 
to see it. 

"Now, Kennedy, if foot or horse.'" 

EOBT. 



XIV. 
TO ME. EOBEET MUIE, 

KILMABNOCK. 

(Tie Muirs — there were two brothers — ^were kind and 
eneious patrons of the poet. Tliey subscribed for half-a- 
incdred copies of the Kilmarnock edition of his works, 
md befriended him when friends were few.] 

Ilossgiel, 20th 3Iarch, 1786. - 

r-EAB, SiK, 

I AM heartily sorry I had not the pleasure of 
■ I PoemLXXV. 



seeing you as you returned through Mauchline, 
but as I was engaged, I could not be in town 
before the evening. 

I here enclose you my " Scotch Drink," and 

" may the follow with a blessing for youJ 

edification." I hope, some time before we heal 
the gowk, to have the pleasure of seeing you a,\ 
Kilmarnock, when I intend we shall have a gill 
between us, in a mutchkin-stoup ; which will be 
a great comfort and consolation to, 
Dear Sir, 

Your humble servant, 

EOBT. BURNESS. 



TO ME. AIKEN. 

[Robert Aiken, the gentleman to whom the " Cotter'g 
Saturday Night!' is inscribed, is also introduced in the 
" Brigs of Ayr." This is the last letter to which Burns 
seems to have subscribed his name in the spelling of hia 
ancestors.] 

Mossgiel, Zd April, 1786. 
Dear Sir, 
I RECEIVED your kind letter with double plea- 
sure, on account of the second flattering in- 
stance of Mrs.- C.'s notice and approbation, I 
assure you I 

" Turn out the burnt side o' my shin," 

as the famous Eamsay, of jingling memory, 
says, at such a patroness. Present her my 
most grateful acknowledgment in your very 
best manner of telling truth. I have inscribed 
the following stanza on the blank leaf of Misa 
More's Work: — 2 

My proposals for publishing I am just going 
to send to press. I expect to hear from you bj 
the first opportunity. 

I am ever, dear Sir, 
Yours, 

EOBT. BUENESS. 



XVI. 

TO ME. M'WHINNIE, 

WRITER, AYR. 

JMr. M'Whinnie obtained for Burns several Babscxip 
tions for the first edition of his Poems, of which thiB not* 
enclosed the proposals.] 



2 See Poem LXXVIII. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



325 



Mossgiel, 17th April, 1786. 
It is injuring some hearts, those hearts that 
elegantly bear the impression of the good Cre- 
ator, to say to them y«u give them the trouble 
of obliging a friend ; for this reason, I only tell 
you that I gratify my own feelings in requesting 
your friendly offices with respect to the en- 
closed, because I know it will gratify yours to 
assist me in it to the utmost of your power. , 

I have sent you four copies, as I have no 
less than eight dozen, which is a great deal more 
tbaa I si) all ever need. 

Be sure to remember a poor poet militant in 
your praj'ers. He looks forward with fear and 
trembling to that, to him, important moment 
which stamps the die with — with — with, per- 
haps, the eternal disgrace of, 
My dear Sir, 

Your humble, 

aflicted, tormented, 

EoBBET Burns. 



TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY. 

I" The small piece," the very last of his productions, 
which the poet enclosed in this letter, was " The Moun- 
rain Daisy," called in thd manuscript more properly 
" The Gowan."] 



Sir, 



Mossgiel, 20th April, 175 



By some neglect in Mr. Hamilton, I did not 
hear of your kind request for a subscription 
paper 'till this day. I will not attempt any ac- 
knowledgment for this, nor the manner in which 
I see your name in Mr. Hamilton's subscription 
list. Allow me only to say. Sir, I feel the weight 
of the debt. 

I have here likewise enclosed a small piece, 
Uie very latest of my productions. I am a good 
deal pleased with some sentiments myself, as 
they are just the native querulous feelings of 
a heart, which, as the elegantly melting Gray 
gays, " melancholy has* marked for her own." 

Our race comes on a-pace ; that much-ex- 
pocted scene of revelry and mirth ; but to me it 
iiringsno joy equal to that meeting with which 
four last flattered the expectation of. 



Your indebted humble servant, 



R. B. 



XVIII. 
TO MON. JAMES SMITH, 

MAUCHLINE. 

[James Smith, of whom Burns said ho was sma'l o( 
stature, but large of soul, kept at that time a draper', 
shop in Mauchline, and was comrade to the poet iji 
many a wild adventure.] 

Monday Morning, Mossgiel, 1 78C. 
My dear Sir, 
I WENT to Dr. Douglas yesterday, fully '■e- 
solved to take the opportunity of Captain Smith, 
but I found the Doctor with a Mr. and Mrs. 
White, both Jamaicans, and they have deranged 
my plans altogether. They assure him that to 
send me from Savannah la Mar to Port Antonio 
will cost my master, Charles Douglas, upwards 
of fifty pounds ; besides running the risk of 
throwing myself into a pleuritic fever, in conse- 
quence of hard travelling in the sun. On these 
accounts, he refuses sending me with Smith, 
but a vessel sails from Greenock the first of Sep- 
tember, right for the place of my destination. 
The Captain of her is an intimate friend of Mr. 
Gavin Hamilton's, and as good a fello"w as heart 
could wish: with him I am destined to go. 
Where I shall shelter, I know not, but I hope to 
weather the storm. Perish the drop of blood of 
mine that fears them ! I know their worst, and 
am prepared to meet it; — 

"I'll laugh an' sing, an' shake my leg, 
As lang's I dow." 

On Thursday morning, if you can muster as 
much self-denial as to be out of bed about seven 
o'clock, I shall see you, as I ride through to Cum ■ 
nock. After all. Heaven bless the sex ! I fee* 
there is still happiness for me among them : 

" O woman, lovely woman ! Heaven desigu'd yon 
To temper man ! — we had been brutes without you.- 
R. B 



XIX, 

TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY. 

[Burns was busy in a two-fold sense at present :.« 
was seeking patrons in every quartei for his conteiii' 
plated volume, and he was composing ior it some of -iM 
most exquisite poetry.] 

Mossgiel, 16 May, 1796. 
Dear Sir, 
I HAVE sent you the above hasty copy as 1 
promised. In about three or four weeks I shall 

• Otway. Venice Preserved. 



i526 



GENEKAL CORRESPONDENCE 



probably set the press a-going. I am much 
hurried at present, otherwise your diligence, so 
very friendly in ray subscription, should have a 
more lengthened acknowledgment from, 
Dear Sir, 
Your obliged servant, 

E. B. 



XX. 

TO MR. DAVID BSICE. 

[EJtYiii Srice was a shoemaker, and shared with Smith 
L'te cvhMenc.B of tlio poet in his love aJairs. He was 
working in Ghxsgow when this letter was written.] 

Mossgiel, June 12, 1786. 
Dear Brioe, 

I RECEIVED your message by 6. Patterson, and 
as I am not very throng at present, I just write 
to let you know that there is such a worthless, 
I'liyniing reprobate, as your humble servant, 
still in the land of the living, though I can 
scarcely say, in the place of hope. I have no 
news to tell you that will give me any pleasure 
to mention, or you to hear. 

Poor ill-advised ungrateful Armour came 
home on Friday last. You have heard all the 
particulars of that affair, and a black affair it is. 
What she thinks of her conduct now, I don't 
know ; one thing I do know — she has made me 
completely miserable. Never man loved, or 
rather adored a woman more than I did her ; 
and, to confess a truth between you and me, I 
do still l^ve her to distraction after allj though 
I won't tell her so if I were to see her, which I 
don't want to do. My poor dear unfortunate 
Jean ! how happy have I been in thy arms ! It 
is not the losing her that makes me so unhappy, 
but for her sake I feel most severely : I fore- 
see she is in the road to, I am afraid, eternal 
ruiu. ***^^ 

May Almighty God forgive her ingratitude 
and perjury to me, as I from my very soul for- 
jfive her : and may his grace be with her and 
bless her in all her future life ! I can have no 
a.es:rer idea of tie place of eternal punishment 
than what I have felt in my own bi 2ast on her 
account. I have tried often to fcrget her ; I 
have run into all kinds of dissipation and riots, 
mason-meetings, drinking matches, and other 
mischief, to drive her out of my head, but all in 
vain. And now for a grand cure ; the ship is 
jn her waj home that is to take me out to 
Jamaica ; and then, farewell dear old Scotland ! 



and farewell dear ungrateful Jean ! for neves 
never will I see you more. 

You will have heard that I am going to coxa- 
mence poet in print ; and to morrow my works 
go to the press. I expect it will be a volume of 
about two hundred pages— it is just the last 
foolish action I intend to do ; and then turn a 
wise man as fast as possible. 

Believe me to be, dear Brice, 

Your friend and well-wisher, 

R. B. 



XXI. 
TO MR. ROBERT AIKEN. 

[This letter was written under great distress of mind 
That separation which Burns records in " The Lament," 
had, unhappily, takvin place between him and Jean Ar- 
mour, and it would appear, that for a time at least a 
coldness ensued between the poet and the patron, occu' 
sioned, it is conjectured, by that fruitful subject of sor- 
row and disqu\et. The letter, I regret to say, is not 
wholly herfa.] 

\_AyrsMre, 1786.] 
Sir, 

I WAS with Wilson, my prifiter, t'other, day, 
and settled all our by-gone matters between us. 
After I had paid him all demands, I made him 
the offer of the second edition, on the hazard of 
being paid out of the first and readiest, which 
he declines. By his account, the paper of a 
thousand copies would cost about twenty-seven 
pounds, and the printing about fifteen or six- 
teen : he offers to agree to this for the printing, 
if I will advance for the paper, but this, you 
know, is out of my power ; so farewell hopes of 
a second edition till I grow richer ! an epochs 
which I think will arrive at the payment of the 
British national debt. 

There is scarcely anything hurts me so much 
in being disappointed of my second edition, as 
not having it in my powor to show my gratitude 
to Mr. Ballantyne, hy p-jbJidhing my poem of 
" The Brigs of Ayr." I reuuld detest myself %f 
a wretch, if I thought ^ w^re capable in a verj 
long life of forgetting the honest, warm, an<l 
tender delicacy with i.hich he enters into my 
interests. I am sometimes pleased with myself 
in my greateful sensa*ions ; but I believe, on the 
whole, I have very liille merit in it, as my gra 
titude is not a virtue, the consequence of reflec- 
tion ; but sheerly the instinctive emotion of my 
heart, too inattenti\e to allow worldly masima 
and views to settle i.dto selfish habits. 



OF ROBEET EURNS. 



3i7 



I have loeea feeling all the various rotations 
fcnd movements within, respecting the excise. 
■] here are many things plead strongly against 
t ; the uncertainty of getting soon into business; 
the coiiseiiiiences of my follies, which may per- 
haps make it impracticable for me to stay at 
home ; and besides I have for some time been 
pramg under secret wretchedness, from causes 
which you pretty well know — the pang of dis- 
appointment, the sting of pride, with some wan- 
dering stabs of remorse, which never fail to set- 
tle on my vitals like vultures, when attention is 
not called away by the calls of society, or the 
vagaries of the muse. Even in the hour of so- 
cial mirth, my gayety is the madness of an in- 
toxicated ci'iminal under the hands of the exe- 
cutioner. A\X these reasons urge me to go 
abroad, and to all these reasons I have only 
one answer — the feelings of a father. This, in 
the present mood I am in, overbalances every- 
thing that can be laid in the scale against it. * * 

You may perhaps think it an extravagant 
fancy, but it is a sentiment which strikes home 
to my very soul: though sceptical in some 
points of our current belief, yet, I think, I have 
every evidence for the reality of a life beyond the 
stinted bourne of our present existence ; if so, 
then, how should I, in the presence of that tre- 
mendous Being, the Author of existence, how 
should I meet the reproaches of those who stand 
to me in the dear relation of children, whom I 
deserted in the smiling innocency of helpless 
infancy ? 0, thou great unknown Power ? — 
thou almighty God ! who has lighted up reason 
in my breast, and blessed me with immortality! 
— I have frequently wandered from that order 
and regularity necessary for the pei-fection of 
thy works, yet thou hast never left me nor for- 
saken me ! * * * * 

Since I wrote the foregoing sheet, I have seen 
something of the storm of mischief thickening 
over my folJy-devoted head. Should you, my 
friends, my benefactors, be successful in your 
applications for me, perhaps it may not be in 
my power, in that way, to reap the fruit of your 
frien ily etibrts. What I have written in the pre- 
ceding pages, is the settled tenor of my present 
resolution ; but should inimical circumstances 
lorbid me closing with your kind offer, or enjoy- 

jig it only threaten to entail farther misery 

tt * ■» * 

To tell the truth, I have little reason for com- 
plaint; as the world, in general, has been kind 



to me fully up to my deserts I was, for sonn 
time past, fast getting into the pining, distr-ust- 
ful snarl of thf misanthrope. I saw myself alone, 
unfit for the struggle of life, shrinking at every 
rising cloud jn the chance-directed atmosphere 
of fortune, while all defenceless I looked aboul 
in vain for a cover. It never occurred to me^ 
at least ne^er with the force it deserved, that 
this worla is a busy scene, and man, a crcatur* 
destined for a progressive struggle ; and that, 
howeve)- I might possess a warm heart ani 
inoffentttve manners (which last, by the by, waa 
rather more than I could well boast) ; still, 
more- than these passive qualities, there waa 
somr^thing to be done. When all my school 
fellows and youthful compeers (those misguided 
few excepted who joined, to use a Gentoo 
phrase, the " hallachores" of the human race) 
wer« striking off with eager hope and earnest 
intent, in some one or other of the many paths 
of liusy life, I was "standing idle in the market- 
place," or only left the chase of the butterfly 
from flower to flower, to hunt fancy from whim 
to whim. * * * * 

"Sou see. Sir, that if to know one's errors were 
a probability of mending them, I stand a fair 
chance: but according to the reverend West- 
minster divines, though conviction must precede 
conversion, it is very far from always implying 
it. * * * * R B 



XXII. 
TO JOHN RICHMOND, 

EDINBURaH. 

[The minister who took upon him to pronounce Buiw 
a single man, as he intimates in this letter, was the Ilev, 
Mr. Auld, of Mauchline : that the law of the land nli 
the law of the church were at variance on the subje* t f) 
one can deny.] 

Ilossgiel, %th July, 1786. 
My dear Friend, 

With the sincerest grief I road your letter 
You are truly a son of misfortane. I shall bo 
extremely anxious to hear from you how youi 
health goes on ; if it is in any way re-estab- 
lishing, or if Leith promises well ; in short, how 
you feel in the inner man. 

No news worth anything: only* godly Bryan 
was in the inquisition yesterday, and half the 
country-side as witnesses against him. He siJJ 
stands out steady and denying: but proof was 
led yesternight of circumstances 1 ighb^ gugpi 



828 



GENERAL CORKESPOJS D ENCE 



cious: almost de facto, one of the servant girls 
made faith that she upon a time rashly entered 
the house — to speak in your cant, " in the hour 
of cause." 

I have waited on Armour since her return 
home ; not from any the least view of reconcili- 
ation, but merely to ask for her health and — to 
JTDU I will confess it- -from a foolish hankering 
fondness — very ill placed indeed. The mother 
lorbade me the house, nor did Jean show the 
penitence that might have been expected. How- 
ever, the priest, I am informed, will give mo a 
certificate as a single man, if I comply with the 
rules of the church, which for that very reason 
I intend to do. 

I am going to put on sack-cloth and ashes 
this day. I am indulged so far as to appear in 
my own seat. Peccavi, pater, miserere met. My 
book will be ready in a fortnight. If you have 
any subscribers, return them by Connel. The 
Lord stand with the righteous : amen, amen. 

R. B. 



TO JOHN BALLANTYNE, 

OF AYR, 

[There is a plain account in this letter of the destruction 
01 tne iines of marriage which united, as far as a civil 
contract in a manner civil can, the poet and Jean Ar- 
mour. Aiken was consulted, and in consequence of his 
advice, the certificate of marriage was destroyed.] 

Honoured Sir, 
Mt proposals came to hand last night, and 
knowing that you would wish to have it in your 
power to do me a service as early as anybody, 
I enclose you halt a sheet of them. I must 
consult ycu, first opportunity, on the propriety 
of sending my quondam friend, Mr. Aiken, a 
copy. If he is now reconciled to my character 
as an honest man, I would do it with all my 
soul; but I would not be beholden to the noblest 
being ever God created, if he imagined me to be 
a rascal. Apropos, old Mr. Armour prevailed 
mth. him to mutilate that unluckj' paper yester- 
day. Would you believe it ? though I had not 
a hope, nor even a wish, to make her mine after 
her conduct ; yet, when he told me the names 
»ere all out of the paper, my heart died within 
me, and he cut my veins with the news. Per- 
jition seize her falsehood ! 

R. B. 



T(? MR. DAVID BRICE. 

SHOEMAKER, GLASGOW. 

[The letters of Burns at this sad period of his life aW 
full of his private sorrows. Had Jean Armour been lei 
to the guidance of her own heart, the story of her earlj! 
years would have been brighter.] 

Mossgiel, 11th July, 1786. 
I HAVE been so throng printing my PoemSv 
that I could scarcely find as much time as tc 
write to you. Poor Armour is come back again 
to Mauchline, and I went to call for her, and 
her mother forbade me the house, nor did she 
herself express much sorrow for what she haa 
done. I have already appeared publicly in 
church, and wag indulged in the liberty of stand- 
ing in my own seat. I do this to get a certi- 
ficate as a- bachelor, which Mr. Auld has pro- 
mised me. I am now fixed to go for the West 
Indies in October. Jean and her friends insisted 
much that she should stand along with me in tha 
kirk, but the minister would not allow it, which 
bred a great trouble I assure you, and I am 
blamed as the cause of it, though I am sure I 
am innocent; but I am very much pleased, for 
all that, not to have had her company. I have 
no news to tell you that I remember. I am 
really Ijappy to hear of your welfare, and that 
you are so well in Glasgow. I must certainly 
see you before I leave the country. I shall ei 
pect to hear from you soon, and am, 
Dear Brice, 

Yours,— R. B. 



TO MR. JOHN RICHMOND. 

[When this letter was written the poet was sku kirt|{ 
from place to place : the merciless pack of the law bad 
been uncoup.ed at his heels. Mr. Armour did not wish » 
imprison, but to drive him from tne country.] 

Old Rome Forest, 30</t July, 1786, 
Mt DEAR Richmond, 
My hour is now come — you and I will nevei 
naeet in Britain more. I have orders within 
three weeks at farthest, to repair aboard the 
Nancy, Captain Smith, from Clyde to Jamaica, 
and call at Antigua. This, except to our friend 
Smith, whom God long preserve, is a secre* 
about Mauchline. Would you believe it? Ar 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



328 



tuour has got a warrant to tLrow me in jail till 
I find security for an enormous sum. This they 
keep an entire secret, but I got it by a channel 
they little dream of ; and I am wandering from 
one friend's house to another, and, like a true 
Bon of the gospel, "have nowhere to lay my 
hf:ad " I know you will pour an execration on 
hej -cad, but spare the poor, ill-advised girl, 
foi my sake ; though may all the furies that 
i'end the injured, enraged lover's bosom, await 
her mother until her latest hour! I write in a 
moment of rage, reflecting on my miserable 
situation — exiled, abandoned, forlorn. I can 
write no more — let me hear from you by the 
retm-n of coach. I will write you ere I go. 
T am dear Sir, 

Yours, here and heieafter, 

R. B. 



XXVI. 
TO MR. ROBERT MUIR, 

KILMARNOCK. 

iBu ns never tried to conceal either his joys or his sor- 
rows: he sent copies of his favourite pieces, and intima- 
tions of much that befel him to his chief friends and com- 
lades — this brief note was made to carry double.] 

Mossgiel, Friday noon. 
Mr Fkiend, mt Bkothkk, 

Warm recollection of an absent friend presses 
Bo hard upon my heart, that I send him the 
prefixed bagatelle (the Calf), pleased with the 
thought that it will greet the man of my bosom, 
and be a kind of distant language of friend- 
ship. 

You will have heard that poor Armour has 
repaid me double. A very fine boy and a girl 
have awakened a thought and feelings that thrill, 
Bome with tender pressure and some with fore- 
boding anguish, through my soul. 

The poem was nearly an extemporaneous pro- 
luction, on a wag-^r with Mr. Hamilton, "that I 
WO'oli not produce a poem on the subject in a 
givej! ^ime. 

If jou think it worth while, read it to Charles 
and Mr. W. Parker, and if they choose a copy 
of it, it is at their service, as they are men 
whose friendship I shall be proud to claim, both 
in this world and that which is to come. 

I belitve all hopes of staying at home will be 
fcbottJve. but more of this when, in the latter 



part of next week, you shall be troubled with i 
visit from, 

My dear Sir, 

Your most devoted, 

^ B 



XXVII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP, 

or DUNLOP. 

[Mrs. Dunlop vv'as a poetess, and had the blood of tlv 
Wallaces in her veins; though she disliked the iiregu 
larities of the poet, she .scorned to get into a fine naora 
passion about follies which could not be helped, and con 
tinned her friendship to the last of his life.] 

Ayrshire, 1786. 
Madam, 

I am truly sorry I was not at home yesterday, 
when I was so much honoured with your ordei 
for my copies, and incomparably more by the 
handsome compliments you are pleased to pay 
my poetic abilities. I am fully persuaded that 
there is not any class of mankind so feelingly 
alive to the titillations of applause as the sona 
of Parnassus : nor is it easy to conceive how 
the heart of the poor bard dances with rapture, 
when those, whose character in life gives them 
a right to be polite judges, honour him with 
their approbation. Had you been thoroughly 
acquainted with me. Madam, you could not 
have touched my darling heart-chord more 
sweetly than by noticing my attempts to cele- 
brate your illustrious ancestor, the Saviour of 
his Country. 

" Great patriot hero ! ill-requited cnief !"l 

The first book I met with in my early years, 
which I perused with pleasure, was, "The Life 
of Hannibal;" the next was, "The History of 
Sir William Wallace :" for several of my earlier 
years I had few other authors ; and many a 
solitary hour have I stole out, after the labori- 
ous vocations of the day, to shed a tear cvoi 
their glorious, but unfortunate stories. In thc^a 
boyish days I remember, in particular, being 
struck with that part of Wallace's sti^vy ivhere 
these lines occur — 

" Syne to the Leglen wood, wnen it was aJe, 
To make a silent and a safe retreat." 

I chose a fine summer Sunday, the only daj 
my line of life allowed, and walked half a dozej 



530 



GENERAL COIIRESPONDENCE 



)f miles to pay inv respects to the Leglen wood, 
with as much devout enthusiasm as ever pil- 
grim did to Loretto ; and, as I explored every 
len and dell where I could suppose my heroic 
countrj'mau to have lodged, I recollect (for even 
then I was a rhymer) that my heart gloAved 
ff-ith a wish to be able to make a song on him 
in seme measure equal to his merits. 

R. B. 



TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY. 

[It is a. curious chapter in the life of Burns to count 
She number of letters which he wrote, the numl er of fine 
poems he composed, and the number of places which he 
visited in the unhappy summer and autumn of 1786.] 

Kilmarnock, August, 1786. 
Mt dbab, Sik, 
YouE truly facetious epistle of the 3d inst. 
gave me much entertainment. I was sorry I 
had not the pleasure of seeing you as I passed 
your way, but we shall bring up all our lee way 
on Wednesday, the 16th current, when I hope 
to have it in my power to call on you and take 
a kind, very probably a last adieu, before I go 
for Jamaica ; and I expect orders to repair to 
Greenock every day. — I have at last made my 
public appearance, and am solemnly inaugu- 
rated into the numerous class. — Could I have 
got a carrier, you should have had a score of 
vouchers for my authorship ; but now you have 
them, let them speak for themselves. — 

Farewell, my dear friend! may guid luck hit 

A.nd 'mang her favourites admit you ! 
Vt e'er Detraction shore to smit you. 

May nane believe him ! 
Ind ony de'il that thinks to get you, 

Good Lord deceive him, 
R. B. 



TO MR. JAMES BURNESS, 

MONTROSE. 

[The f /od and generous James Burness, of Montrose, 
was ever ready to rejoice with l is cousin's success or 
»>mpathiz9 with his sorrows, but he did not like the 
thanee which came over the old northern surname of 



Burness. when the bard modified it info Burns: thenaRit 
now a rising one in India, is spelt Burnes.] 

Mossffiel, Tuesday noon, Sept. 26, 1786, 
Mt deak Sik, 

I THIS moment receive yours — receive it with 
the honest hospitable warmth of a friend's 
welcome. Whatever comes from you wakens al- 
ways up the better blood about my hesrt, which 
your kind little recollections of my parental 
friends carries as far as it will go. 'Tis there 
that man is blest! 'Tis there, my friend, man 
feels a consciousness of something within him 
above the trodden clod! The grateful reve- 
rence to the hoary (earthly) author of his being 
— the burning glow when he clasps the woman 
of his soul to his bosom — the tender yearnings 
of heart for the little angels to whom he has 
given existence — these nature has poured in 
milky streams about the human heart ; and the 
man who never rouses them to action, by the 
inspiring influences of their proper objects, 
loses by far the most pleasurable part of his 
existence. 

My departure is uncertain, but I do not think 
it will be till after harvest. I will be on very 
short allowance of time indeed, if I do not com- 
ply with your friendly invitation. When it will 
be I don't know, but if I can make my wish 
good, I will endeavour to drop you a line some 
time before. My best compliments to Mrs. 

; I should [be] equally mortified should I 

drop in when she is abroad, but of that I sup- 
pose there is little chance. 

What I have wrote heaven knows ; I have not 
time to review it ; so accept of it in the beaten 
way of friendship. With the ordinary phrase 
— perhaps rather more than the ordinary sin- 
cerity, 

I am, dear Sir, 

Ever yours, 

B. B. 



XXX. 

TO MISS ALEXANDER. 

[This letter, R6bert Chambers says, concluded -wJth 
requesting Miss Alexanaer to allow the poet to print th« 
song which it enclosed, in a second edition of his Poems 
Her neglect in not replying to this request is a very good 
poetic reason for his wrath. Many of Burns's letters 
have been printed, it is right to say, from the rougl' 
drafts found among the poet's papers at his death. Thw 
is one.] 



Mossgiel, 18th Nov. 1786. 
Madam 
Poets are such outr6 beings, so much the 
«hildren of wayward fancy and capricious whim, 
that I believe the world generally allows them a 
largei latitude in the laws of propriety, than the 
srber ,5i>ns of judgment and prudence. I men- 
tion this as an apology for the liberties that a 
nameless stranger has taken with you in the en- 
slosed poem, which he begs leave to present you 
with AVh ether it has poetical merit any way 
worthy of the themOr I am not the proper judge; 
but it is the best my abilities can prod ice ; and 
what to a good heart will, perhaps, be a superior 
grace, it is equally sincere as fervent. 

Tiie scenery was nearly taken from real life, 
though I dare say, Madam, you do not recollect 
it, as I believe you scarcely noticed the poetic 
reveur as he wandered by you. I had roved out 
as cliance directed, in the favourite haunts of 
my muse on the banks of the Ayr, to view nature 
in all the gayety of the vernal year. The even- 
ing sun was flaming over the distant western 
hills ; not a breath stirred the crimson opening 
blossom, or the verdant spreading leaf. It was 
a golden moment for a poetic heart. I listened 
to the feathered warblers, pouring their har- 
mony on every hand, with a congenial kindred 
regard, and frequently turned out of my path, 
lest I should disturb their little songs, or 
frighten them to another station. Surely, said 
I to myself, he must be a wretch indeed, who, 
regard 'ess of your harmonious endeavour to 
please him, can eye your elusive flights to dis- 
cover your secret recesses, and to rob you of 
all the property nature gives you — your dearest 
comforts, your helpless nestlings. Even the 
lioary hawthorn twig that shot across the way, 
what heart nt such a time but must have been 
intorasted in its welfare, and wished it preserved 
from the ruaely -browsing cattle, or the wither- 
im; *astera blast? Such was the scene, — and 
such the hour, when, in a corner of my prospect, 
r spied one of the fairest pieces of nature's 
workmanship that ever crowned a poe*^ic land- 
scape or met a poet's eye, those visionary bards 
eiceptel who hold commerce with aerial beings! 
Had Calumny and Villany taken my walk, they 
bad at that moment swrn eternal peace with 
such an object. 

What an hour of inspiration for a poet ! It 
would have raised plain dull historic prosa into 
aaetajihor measure. 



The enclosed song was the work of my retuns 
home: and perhaps it but poorly answers what 
might have been expected from such a scene. 
I have the honour to be, 
Madam, 
Your most obedient and ver^ 
humble Servant, 

B B 



TO MRS. STEWART, 

OF STAIR AND AFTON. 

[Mrs. Stewart, of Stair and Afton, was the tist peisoa 
of note in the West who had the taste to see f.i.d fee! ti?* 
genius of Burns. He used to relate how his heart fint- 
tered when he first walked into the parlour of the towert 
of Stair, to hear that lady's opinion of some of his songs. J 

[1786.] 
Madam, 

The hurry of my preparations for going 
abroad has hindered me from performing my 
promise so soon as I intended. I have here sent' 
you a parcel of songs, &c., which never made 
their appearance, except to a friend or two at 
most. Perhaps some of them may be no great 
entertainment to you, but of that I am far from 
being an adequate judge. The song to the tune 
of " Ettrick Banks" [The bonnie lass of Bal- 
lochmyle] you will easily see the impropriety 
of exposing much, even in manuscript. I think, 
myself, it has some merit : both as a tolerable 
description of one of nature's sweetest scenes, 
a July evening, and one of the finest pieces of 
nature's workmanship, the finest indeed we 
know anything of, an amiable, beautiful young 
woman;' but I have no common friend to pro- 
cure me that permission, without which I would 
not dare to spread the copy. 

I am quite aware. Madam, what task the worldi 
would assign me in this letter. The obscure 
bard, when any of the great condescend to take 
notice of him, should heap the altar with the in- 
cense of flattery. Their high ancestry, their . 
own great and god-like qualities and actions, 
should be recounted with the most exaggerated 
description. This, Madam, is a task for which 
I am altogether unfit. Besides a certain disquali- 
fying pride of heart, I know nothing of youl 
connexions in life, and have no access to wher« 



Miss Ale^ande7 



B32 



GENEKAL CORRESPONDENCE 



your real character is to be found — the company 
of your compeers : and more, 1 am afraid that 
ever, the most refined adulation is by no means 
tht road to your good opinion. 

One feature of your character I shall ever with 
grateful pleasure remember; — the reception I 
got when I had the honour of waiting on you at 
Stair. I am little acquainted with politeness, 
b^t I know a good deal of benevolence of tem- 
f er and goodness of heart. Surely did those in 
exalted stations know how happy they could 
make seme classes of their inferiors by conde- 
BCsnsion'and affability, they would never stand 
so high, measuring out with every look the height 
of their elevation, but condescend as sweetly as 
did Mrs. Stewart of Stair. 

R. B. 



XXXII. 

IN THE NAME OF THE NINE. AMEN. 

[The song or bialiad which one of the "Deil'syeld 
Nowte" was commanded to burn, was " Holy Willie's 
Prayer," itis believed. Currie interprets the '-Deil'syeld 
Nowte," to mean old bachelors, which, if right, points 
to some other of his compositions, for purgation by fire. 
Gilbert Burns says it is a scoffing appellation sometimes 
given to sheriflfs' officers and other executors of the law.] 

We, Kobert Burns, by virtue of a warrant from 
Nature, bearing date the twenty-fifth day of 
January, Anno Domini one thousand seven 
hundred and fifty-nine,' Poet Laureat, and Bard 
in Chief, in and over the districts and countries 
of Kyle, Cunningham, andCari'ick, of old extent, 
To our trusty and well-beloved William Chal- 
mers and John M'Adam, students and practi- 
tioners in the ancient and mysterious science of 
confounding right and wrong. 
Right Trusty : 

Be it known unto you that whereas in the 
course of our care and watchings over the order 
and police of all and sundry the manufacturers, 
re'iiiiners, and'venders of poesy; bards, poets, 
j-oetasters, rhymers, jinglers, songsters, ballad- 
fingers, &c. &c. &c. &c., male and female — 
We have discovered a certain nefarious, abo- 
minable, and wicked song or ballad, a copy 
whereof We have here enclosed ; Our Will 
therefore is, that Ye pitch upon and appoint 
the most execrable individual of that most exe- 
crable species, kncwn by the appellation, phrase, 
and nick-name of The Deil's Yeld Nowte : and 

I HiB birth-day. 



after having caused him to kindle a fire at the 
Cross of Ayr, ye shall, at noontide of the day, 
put into the said wretch's merciless hands tha 
said copy of the said nefarious and wicked 
song, to be consumed by fire in the presence of 
all beholders, in abhorrence of, and terrorea 
to, all such compositions and composers. An(} 
this in nowise leave ye undone, but have it exe- 
cuted in every point as this our mandate bears^ 
before the twenty-fourth current, when in pcf 
son We hope to applaud your faithfulness an<3 
zeal; 

Given at Mauchline this twentieth day of No- 
vember, Anno Domini one thousand sevjn hua 
dred and eighty-six. 

God save the Bard ! 



XXXIIl. 

TO MR. ROBERT M U 1 R. 

[The expedition to Edinburgh, to which this short 
letter alludes, was undertaken, it is needless to say, in 
consequence of a warm and generous commendation of 
the genius of Burns written by Pr. Blacklock, to tha 
Rev. Mr. Lawrie, and communicated by Ga-fn Hamilton 
to the poet, when he was on the wing foi the West 
Indies.] 

Mossgiel, 18th Nov., 1786, 
My deae Sib, * 

Enclosed you have " Tarn Samson," as I in- 
tend to print him. I am thinking for my Edin- 
burgh expedition on Monday or Tuesday, come 
se'ennight, for pos. I will see you on Tuesday 
first. 

I am ever. 

Your much indebted, 

R. B. 



TO DR. rvlACKENZIi, 

mauchline; 

ENCLOSING THE VERSES ON DINING WITH Li 'RD t AEJt 

[To the kind and venerable Dr. JMackenzie, the pf# 
was indebted for some valuable friendships, and hi? bio- 
graphers for some valuable information respecting tha 
early days of Burns.] 

Wednesday Morning, 
Deak Sir, 
I never spent an afternoon among great folks 
with half that pleasure as when, in company 
with you, I had the honour of paying my de- 
voirs to that plain, honest, worthy man, th« 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



S3S 



professor. [Dngald Stewart.] I would be de- 
lighted to see him perform acts of kindness and 
friendship, though I were not the object ; he 
dogs it with such a grace. I think his charac- 
ter, divided into ten parts, stands thus — four 
parts Socrates — ^four parts Nathaniel — and two 
parts Shakspeiare's Brutus. 

The foregoing verses were really extempore, 
but a little ■ corrected since. They may enter- 
tain you a little with the help of that partiality 
with which you are so good as to favour the 
•performances of, 

Dear Sir, 
Your very humble servant, 

R. B. 



XXXV. 
TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ.,. 

MAtrCHLINE. 

tFrom Gavin Hamilton Burns and his brother took the 
Rirm of Mossgiel : the landlord was not slow in perceiv- 
•ng the genius of Robert: he had him frequently at his 
isble, and the poet repaid this notice by verse not likely 
soon to die.] 

Edinburgh, Dec. 1th, 1786. 
Honoured Sir, 

I HAVE paid every attention to your com- 
mands, but can only say what perhaps you will 
have heard before this reach you, that Muir- 
kirklands were bought by a John Gordon, W. 
S., but for whom I know not; Mauchlands, 
Plaugh, Miln, &c., by a Frederick Fothering- 
hara, supposed to be for Ballochmyle Laird, and 
Adamhill and Shawood were bought for Oswald's 
folks. — This is so imperfect an account, and 
will be so late ere it reach you, that were it not 
to discharge my conscience I would not trouble 
you with it ; but after all my diligence I could 
make it no sooner nor better. 

For my own affairs, I am in a fair way of be- 
coming as eminent as Thomas a Kempis or John 
Banyan ; and you may expect henceforth to see 
tny^birth-day inserted among the wonderful 
events, in the Poor Robin's and Aberdeen Alma- 
nacks, along with the Black Monday, and the 
battle of Bothwell bridge. — My Lord Glencairn 
and the Dean of Faculty, Mr. H. Erskine, have 
taken me under their wiaig ; 'and by all proba- 
bility I shall soon be the tenth worthy, and 
the eighth wise man in the world. Through my 
lord's influence it is inserted in the records 
tf the Caledonian Hunt that they universally, 



one and all, subscribe for the second ed'tion.— 
My subscription bills come out to-morrow, and 
you shall have some of them next post. — I havft 
met, in Mr. Dalrymple, of Orangefield, what 
Solomon emphatically calls " a friei-d that stick- 
eth closer than a brother." — The warmth with 
which he interests himself in my affairs is of 
the same enthusiastic kind which you, Mr Aiken, 
and the few patrons that took notice of my 
earlier poetic days, showed for the poor unluck7 
devil of a poet. 

I always remember Mrs. Hamilton and Miss 
Kennedy in my poetic prayers, but you both in 
prose and verse. 

May cauld ne'er catch you but a hap, 
Nor hunger but in plenty's lap ! 
Amen ! 

B. B 



XXXVI. 
TO JOHN BALLANTYNE, ESQ.. 

BANKER, AYR. 

[This is the second letter which Burns wrote, after his 
arrival in Edinburgh, and it is remarkable because -it dis- 
tinctly imputes his introduction to tlie Earl of Glencairn, 
to Dalrymple, of Orangefield • though he elsewhere sayd 
this was done by Mr. Dalzell ; — perhaps both those gen- 
tlemen had a hand in this good deed .J 

Edinburgh, IWi Dee. 178f. 
Mt honoured Friend, 
I WOULD not write you till I could have it in my 
power to give you some account of myself and my 
matters, which, by the by, is often no easy task. 
— I arrived here on Tuesday was se'ennight, and 
have suffered ever since I came to town with a 
miserable headache and stomach complaint, 
but am now a good deal better. — I have found a 
worthy warm friend in Mr. Dalrymple, of Orange- 
field, who introduced me to Lord Glencairn, 
a man whose worth and brotherly kindness to 
me, I shall remember when time ,shall be ns 
more. — By his interest it is passed in the " Cale- 
donian Hunt," and entered in their bookgj thai 
they are to take each a copy of the second edi- 
tion, for which they are to pay one guinea.— 
I have been introduced to & good many of the 
woSZesAe, but my avowed patrons and patronesaCS 
are the Duchess of Gordon — the Countess of 
Glencairn, with my Lord, and Lady Betty ' — 
the Dean of Faculty— Sir John Whitefoord— I 



Lady Betty Cunningham. 



S34 



GENEEAL CORRESPONDENCE 



have likewise vrarm fi-iends among the literati ; 
Professors Stewart, Blair, and Mr. Mackenzie — 
the Man of Feeling. — An unknown hand left ten 
guineas for the Ayrshire bard with Mr. Sibbald, 
which I got. — I since have discovered my gene- 
rics unknown friend to be Patrick Miller, Esq., 
brother to the Justice Clerk ; and drank a glass 
cf claret with him, by invitation, at his own 
feouse, yesternight. I am nearly agreed with 
Creech t' print my book, and I suppose I will 
begin on Monday. I will send a subscription 
bill or two, next post ; when I intend writing 
my first kind patron, Mr. Aiken. I saw his son 
to-day, and he is very well. 

Dugald Stewart, and some of my learned 
friends, put me in the periodical paper, called 
The Lounger,' a copy of which I here enclose 
you. — I was, Sir, when I was first honoured 
with your notice, too obscure ; now I tremble 
lest I should be ruined by being dragged too 
suddenly into the glare of polite and learned 
observation. 

I shall certainly, my ever honoured patron, 
write you an account of my every step ; and 
better health and more spirits may enable me 
to make it something better than this stupid 
matter-of-fact epistle. 

I have the honour to be, 

Good Sir, 
Your ever grateful humble servant, 

R. B. 

If any of my fi'iends write me, my direction 
U. care of Mr. Creech, bookseller. 



-TO MR. ROBERT MUIR. 

L Aluir, thy weaknesses," says Burns, writing of tliis 
jjfntlsmun to Mrs. Dunlop, " thy weaknesses were the 
«r arrat'ons of human nature ; but thy heart glowed with 
nar/thir.g generous, manly, and noble: and if ever 
9»zia.i4iion from the Ail-good Being animated a human 
in; i ■was thine. 

Edinburgh, Dec. 20th, 1786. 

My dear Friend, 

I HAVE just time for the carrier, to tell you 

that I received your letter ; of which I shall 

nay no more but what a lass of my acquaintance 

laid of her bastard wean ; she said she " did 



na ken wha was the father exactly, but 8h« 
suspected it was some o' the bonny blackguara 
smugglers, for it was like them." So I Dnly 
say your obliging epistle was like you. I en- 
close you a parcel of subscription bills, iour 
afi"air of sixty copies is also like you; but it 
would not be like me to comply. 

Your friend's notion of my life has put ft 
crotchet in my head of sketching it in soua 
future epistle to you. My compliments to 
Charles and Mr. Parker. R. B. 



I Th » paper here alluded to, was written by Mr. Mac- 
oa"9, the celebrated author of " The Man of Feeling." 



TO MR. WILLIAM CHALMERS, 

WRITER, AYR. 

[William Chalmers drew out the assignment of tha 
copyright of Burns's Poems, in favour of his brother 
Gilbert, and for the maintenance of his natural child, 
when engaged to go to the West Indies, in the autumn 
of 1786.] 

JEdinburffh, Dec. 27, 1786. 
My DEAR Friend, 
I CONFESS I have sinned the sin for which 
there is hardly any forgiveness — ingratitude to 
friendship — in not writing you sooner ; but of 
all men living, I had intended to have sent you 
an entertaining letter ; and by all the plodding, 
stupid powers, that in nodding, conceited ma- 
jesty, preside over the dull routine of business 
— a heavily solemn oath this ! — I am, and have 
been, ever since I came to Edinburgh, as unfit 
to write a letter of humour, as to write a com- 
mentary on the Revelation of St. John the Di- 
vine, who was banished to the Isle of Patmos, 
by the cruel and bloody Domitian, son to Ves- 
pasian and brother to Titus, both emperors of 
Rome, and who was himself an emperor, an J 
raised the second or third persecution, I fcrget 
which, against the Christians, and after throw- 
ing the said Apostle John, brother to the Apostle 
James, commonly called James the Greater, to 
distinguish him from another James, who was, 
on some account or other, known by the name 
of James the Less — after throwing him into a 
cauldron of boiling oil, from which he was mi- 
raculously preserved, he banished the poor son 
of Zebedee to a desert island in the Archipelago, 
where he was gifted with the second sight, and 
saw as many wild beasts as I have seen since T 
oame to Edinburgh ; which, a circumstance no! 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



33> 



rerj uncommon in stor3'--telling, brings me back 
to -where I set out. 

To make you some amends for what, before 
you reach this paragraph, you -will have suffered, 
I enclose you two poems I have carded and spun 
iince I past Glenbuck. 

One blank in the address to Edinburgh — 
•• Fair B ," is heavenly Miss Burnet, daugh- 
ter to Lord Monboddo, at whose house I have 
kad the honour to be more than once. There 
has not been anything nearly like her in all the 
3ombinations "^f beauty, grace, and goodness 
rhe great Creato'' has formed since' Milton's Eve 
j)n the first day of her existence. 

My direction is — care of Andrew Bruce, mer- 
chant, Bridge-street. R. B. 



TO THE EARL OF EGLINTOUN. 

[Archibald Montgomery, eleventh Earl of Eglinton, 
and Colonsl Hugh Montgomery, of Coilsfield, who suc- 
ceeded his brother in his titles and estates, were patrons, 
and kirid cues, of Burns.] 

Edinhurgli, January 1787. 
My LoED, 
As I have but s''ender pretensions to philoso- 
phy, 1 cannot rise to the exalted ideas of a citi- 
zen of the world, but have all those national 
prejudices, which I believe glow peculiarly 
strong in the breast of a Scotchman. There is 
scarcely anything to which I am so feelingly 
alive as the honour and welfare of my country : 
and, as a poet, I have no higher enjoyment than 
Biugiug her sons and daughters. Fate had cast 
my station in the veriest shades of life ; but 
never di.l a heart pant more ardently thar 
mine to be distinguished ; though, till very 
lately, I looked in vain on every side for a ray 
of light. It is easy then to guess how much I 
Wn3 gratified with the countenance and appro- 
jbation of one of my csuntry's most illustrious 
sons, when Mr. Wauchope callsd on me yester- 
day on the part of your lordship. Your muni- 
fifeence, my lord, certainly deserves my very 
grateful acknowledgments ; but your patro- 
nage is a bounty peculiarly suited to my feel- 
ings. I am not master enough of the etiquette 
or life to know, whether there be not some im- 
propriety in troubling your lordship with my 
(hanks, tut my heart whispered me to do it. 



From the emotions of my inmost soul I do it 
Selfish ingratitude I hope I am incapable of, 
and mercenary servility, I trust, I shall evel 
have 30 much honest pride as to detest. 

K. B. 



XL. 
TO MR. GAVIN HAMILTON. 

[This letter was first published by Robert Chambsm, 
who considered it as closing the inquiry, "was Burns 
a married man ?" No doubt Burns thought himself un 
married, and the Rev.Mr. Auld was of the same opinion, 
since he offered him a certificate tljat he was single: but 
no opinion of priest or lawyer, including the disclama- 
tion of Jean Armour, and the belief of Burns, could have, 
in my opinion, barred the claim of the children to fuL 
legitimacy, according to the law of Scotland.] 

Edinburgh, Jan. 7, 1787* 
To tell the truth among friends, I feel a mi 
serable blank in my heart, with the want of her, 
and I don't think I shall ever meet with so de- 
licious an armful again. She has her faults : 
and so have you and I ; and so has everybody 

Their tricks and craft hae put me daft ; 

They've ta'en me in and a' that; 
But clear your decks, and here's the sex 
I like the jads for a' that. 
For a' that and a' that, 
And twice as muckle's a' tha*. 



I have met with a very pretty girl, a Lothian 
farmer's daughter, whom I have almost per- 
suaded to accompany me to the west country, 
should I ever return to settle there. By the 
bye, a Lothian farmer is about an Ayrshire 
squire of the lower kind ; and I had a most d©' 
licious ride from Leith to her house yesternight, 
in a hackney-coach with her brother and two 
sist'^rs. and brother's wife We had dined alto 
gether at a common friend's house in Leith, and 
danced, drank, and sang till late enough. Th« 
night was dark, the claret had been gooJ, and 
I thirsty. **<**• R. B. 



XLI. 
TO JOHN BALLANTTNE, ESQ, 

[This letter contains the first intimation that the po« 
desired to resume the labours of the farmer. Tlie oli 



i536 



GENERAL COERESPONDENCE 



law of "Willie Gaw's Skate," he picked up from his 
mother , who had a vast collection of such sayings.] 

Edinburgh., Jan. 14, 1787. 
Mr HONOUEED Fkiend, 

It gives me a secret comfort to observe in 
myself that I am not yet so far gone as Willie 
Gaw's Skate, "past redemption;" for I have 
still this favourable symptom of grace, that 
whea my conscience, as in the case of this 
tetter, tells me I am leaving something undone 
that I ought to do, it teases me eternally till I 
do it. 

I am still " dark as was Chaos'" in respect to 
futurity. My generous friend, Mr. Patrick 
Miller, has been talking with me about a lease 
of some farm or other in an estate called Dal- 
swinton, which he has lately bought, near Dum- 
fries. Some life-rented embittering recollec- 
tions whisper me that I will be happier anywhere 
than in my old neighbourhood, but Mr. Miller 
is no judge of land; and though I dare say he 
means to favour me, yet he may give me, in his 
opinion, an advantageous bargain that may ruin 
me. I am to take a tour by Dumfries as I 
return, and have promised to meet Mr. Miller 
on his lands some time in May. 

I went to a mason-lodge yesternight, where 
the most Worshipful Grand Master Charters, 
and all the Grand Lodge of Scotland visited. 
The meeting was numerous and elegant; all the 
different lodges about town were present, in all 
their pomp. The Grand Master, who presided 
with great solemnity and honour to himself as 
a gentleman and mason, among other general 
coasts, gave " Caledonia, and Caledonia's Bard, 
Brother Burns," which rung through the whole 
assembly with multiplied honours and'repeated 
acclamations. As I had no idea such a thing 
would happen, I was downright thunderstruck, 
and, trembling in every nerve, made the best 
return in my power. Just as I had finished, 
Bome of the grand officers said, so loua that I 
Muld hear, with a most comforting accent, 
"Very well indeed!" which set me something 
to rights again. v 

I have to- day corrected my 152d page. ■ My 
best good wishes to Mr. Aiken. 
I am ever. 
Dear Sir, 
Your much indebted humble servant, 

R. B. 

> See Blair 9 Grave. This was a favourite quotation 
•fith Bums. 



TO JOHN BALLANTYNE. 

[I have not hesitated to insert all letters whicn em w 
what Burns was musing on as a poet, or planning aw a 
man.] 

January — , 1787. 
While here I sit, sad and solitary by th e side 
of a fire in a little country inn, and drying my 
wet clothes, in pops a poor fellow of sodger, and 
iells me he is going to Ayr. By heavens ! say I 
to myself, with a tide of good spirits which the 
magic of thaffsound, Auld Toon 0' Ayr, conjured 
up, I will sent my last song to Mr. Ballantyne. 
Here it is — 

Ye flowery banks 0' bonnie Doon, 
How can ye blume sae fair ; 

How can ye chant, ye little birds, 
And I sae fu' 0' care \^ 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

[The friendship of Mrs. Dunlop purified, while it 
strengthened the national prejudices of Burns.] 

Edinburgh,, Ibth January, 1787. 
Mad AM, 
YoTJUS of the 9th current, which I am this 
moment honoured with, is a deep reproach to 
me for ungrateful neglect. I will tell you the 
real truth, for I am miserably awkward at a fib 
— I wished to have written to Dr. Moore before 
I wrote to you ; but though every day since I 
received yours of December 30th, the idea, the 
wish to write to him has constantly pressed on 
my thoughts, yet I could not for my soul set 
about it. I know his fame and character, and 
I am one of "the sons of little men." To write 
him a mere matter-of-fact affair, like a mer- 
chant's order, would be disgracing the littla 
character I have ; and to write the author of 
" The View of Society and Manners" a letter 
of sentiment — I declare every artery runs cold 
at the thought. I shall try, however, to write 
to him to-morrow or next day. His kind inter- 
position in my benalf I have already experienced, 
as a gentleman waited on me the other day, on 
the part of Lord Eglintoun, with ten guineas, bj 



2 Song CXXXi. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



&37 



way of subBcription for two copies of my next 
edition. 

The word you object to in the mention I haye 
made of my glorious countryman and your im- 
mortal ancestor, is indeed borrowed from Thom- 
son ; but it does not strike me as an improper 
epithet. I distrusted my own judgment on your 
finding fault with it, and applied for the opinion 
of some of the literati here, who honour me 
with their critical strictures, and they all allow 
it to be proper. The song you ask I cannot re- 
collect, and I have not a copy of it. I have not 
composed anything on the great Wallace, except 
what you have seen in print ; and the enclosed, 
which I will print in this edition. You will see 
I have mentionod some others of the name. 
When I composed my "Vision" long ago, I had 
attempted a description of Koyle, of which the 
additional stanzas are a part, as it originally 
stood. My heart glows with a wish to be able 
to do justice to the merits of the "Saviour of 
his Country," which sooner or later I shall at 
least attempt. 

You are afraid I shall grow intoxicated with 
my prospei'ity as a poet ; alas ! Madam, I know 
myself and the world too well. I do not mean 
any airs of affected modesty ; I am willing to 
i)elieve that my abilities deserve some notice ; 
but in a most enlightened, informed age and 
nation, when poetry is and has been the study 
of men of the first natural genius, aided with all 
the powers of polite learning, polite books, and 
polite company — to be dragged forth to the full 
glare of learned and polite observation, with all 
my imperfections of awkward rusticity and 
crude unpolished ideas on my head — I assure 
you, Madam, I do not dissemble when I tell 
you I tremble for the consequences. The 
novelty of a poet in my obscure situation, with- 
out any of those advantages which are reckoned 
necessary for that character, at least at this 
time of day, has raised a partial tide of public 
notice which has borne me to a height, where I 
em absolutely, feelingly certain, my abilities 
are inadequate to support me ; and too surely 
do I see that time when the same tide will 
leave me, and recede, perhaps, as far below the 
mark of truth. I do not say this in the ridi- 
culous affectation of self-abasement and mo- 
desty. I have studied myself, and Know what 
ground I occupy ; and, however a friend or the 
world may differ from me in that particular, I 
Btand for my own opinion, in silent resolve, with 
22 



all the tenaciousness of property. I mention 
this to you once for all to disburthen my mind, 
and I do not wish to hear or say more about 
it.— But, 

" When proud fortune's ehbing tide recedes,-- 
you will bear me witness, that when my bubble 
of fame was at the highest, I stood unintoxi- 
cated with the inebi-iating cup in my hand, 
looking forward with rueful resolve to thf 
hastening time, when the blow of (Jaiumny 
should dash it to the ground with all the eager- 
ness of vengeful triumph. 

Your patronizing me and interesting yourself 
in my fame and character as a poet, I rejoice 
in ; it exalts me in my own idea ; and whether 
you can or cannot aid me in my subscription is 
a trifle. Has a paltry subscription-bill any 
charms to the heart of a bard, compared with 
the patronage of the descendant of the immortal 
Wallace ? R. B. 



TO 1»R. MOOEE. 

[Dr. Moore, tne r.,;complished author of Zeluco auS 
father of Sir John Moore, interested himself in the fam€ 
and fortune of Burns, as soon as the oublicalion of his 
Poems marie his name known to the wond.] 

Edinburgh. Jan. 1787. 

SlK, 

* Mrs. Dunlop has been so kind as to send me 
extracts of letters she has had from you, where 
you do the rustic bard the honour of noticing 
him and his works. Those who have felt the 
anxieties and solicitudes of authorship, can only 
know what pleasure it gives to be noticed in 
such a manner, by judges of the first character. 
Your criticisms, Sir, I receive with reverence \ 
only I am sorry they mostly came too late : a 
peccant passage or two that I would certainly 
have altered, were gone to the pi ess. 
• The hope to be admired for ages, is, in by fai 
the greater part of those even who are autl ors 
of repute, an unsubstantial dream. For my 
part, my first ambition was, and still my strong- 
est wish is, to please my compeers, the rustic 
inmates of the hamlet, while ever-changing lan- 
guage and manners shall allow me to be relished 
and understood. I am very willing to admit 
that I have some poetical abilities ; and as few, 
if any, writers, either moral or poetical, are in- 
timately acquainted with the classes of mankincf 



among whom I have chiefly mingled, I may have 
Been men and manners in a different phasis from 
what is common, which may assist originality 
of thought. Still I know very well the novelty 
of my character has by far the greatest share 
m the learnei and polite notice I have lately 
had ; and in a language where Pope and 
Churchill have raised the laugh, and Shenstone 
and Gray drawn the tear ; where Thomson and 
Ceattie have painted the landscape, and Lyttel- 
ton and Collins described the heart, I am not 
vain enough to hope for distinguished poetic 
fame. E. B. 



TO THE REV. G. LAURIE, 

NEWMILLS, NEAE KILMAENOCK. 

[It nas Deen said in the Life of Burns, that for some time 
after ne went to Edinbargh, he did not visit Dr. Black- 
.ock, whose high opinion of his genius induced him to 
try his fortune in that city : it will be esen by this letter 
that he had neglected also, for a time, at least, to write 
to Dr. Iiaurie, who introduced him to the Doctor.] 

Edinburgh, Feb. 5th, 1787. 
Reverend and deab. Sir, 

When I look at the date of your kind letter, 
my heart reproaches me severely with ingrati- 
tude in neglecting so long to answer it. I will 
not trouble you with -any account, by way of 
apology, of my hurried life and distracted at- 
tention: do me the justice to believe that my 
delay by no means proceeded from want of re- 
spect. I feel, and ever shall feel for you the 
mingled sentiments of esteer: for a friend and 
reverence for a father. 

I thank you, Sir, with all my sou. for your 
friendly hints, though I do not need them so 
much as my friends are apt to imagine. You 
are dazzled with newspaper accounts and distant 
reports ; but, in reality, I have no great tempta- 
tion to be intoxicated with the cup of prosperity. 
Novelty may attrac* the attention of mankind 
Rvhile ; to it I owe my present 6clat ; but I see 
the time not far distant when the popular tide 
which has borne me to a height of which I am, 
perhaps, unworthy, shall recede with silent ce- 
lerity, and leave me a barren waste of sand, to 
descend at my leisure to my former station. I 
do not say this in the affectation of modesty ; 
I see the consequence is unavoidable, and am 
prepared for it I had been at a good deal 



cf pains to form a just, impartial estimate of 
my intellectual powers before I came here ; 1 
have not added, since I came to Edinburgh, 
anything to the account ; and I trust I shall 
take every atom of it back to my shades, the 
coverts of my unnoticed, early years. 

In Dr. Blacklock, whom I see very often, I 
have found what I would have expected in out 
friend, a clear head and an excellent heart. 

By far the most agreeable hours I spend m 
Edinburgh must be placed to the account of 
Miss Laurie and her piano-forte. I cannot help 
repeating to you and Mrs. Laurie a compliment 
that Mr. Mackenzie, the celebrated " Man of 
Feeling," paid to Miss Laurie, the other night 
at the concert. I had come in at the interlude, 
and sat down by him till I saw Miss Laurie in 
a seat not very distant, and went up to pay my 
respects to her. On my return to Mr. Macken- 
zie he asked mt who she was ; I told him 'twaa 
the daughter of a reverend friend of mine in the 
west cotintry. He returned, there was some- 
thing very striking, to his idea, in her appear- 
ance. On my desiring to know what it was, he 
was pleased to say, " She has. a great deal of the 
elegance of a well-bred lady about her, with all 
the sweet simplicity of a country girl." 

My compliments to all the happy inmates of 
St. Margaret's. R. B. 



XLVT. 
TO DR. MOORE. 



[In the answer to this letter, Dr. Moore says that th 
poet was a great favourite in his family, and that hii 
youngest son, at Winchester school, had translated pari 
of "Halloween" into Latin verse, for the benefit of 
■h-s coraraaes.J 

Edinburgh, Ibth February, 1787. 
Sir, 
Pardon my seeming neglect in delaying so 
long to acknowledge the honour you have done 
me, in your kind notice of me, January 23d. 
Not many months ago I knew no other empldy- 
ment than following the plough, nor could boast 
anything higher than a distant acquaintance 
with a country clergyman. Mere greatness 
never embarrasses me ; I have nothing to ask 
from the great, and I do not fear their judg- 
ment : but genius, polished by learning, and at 
its proper point of elevation in the eye of the 
world, this of late I frequently meet with, and 



OF ROBEKT BURNS. 



53i 



tremble at its approach. I scorn the affectation 
"){ seeming modesty to cover self-conceit. That 
[ have some merit I do not deny ; but I see 
with frequent wringings of heart, that the no- 
velty of my character, and the honest national 
prej udice of my countrymen, have borne me to 
a height altogether untenable to my abilities. 

For the honour Miss Williams has done me, 
fisaie, . Sir, return her in my name my most 
grateful thanks. I have more than once thought 
of paying her in kind, but have hitherto quitted 
the idea in hopeless despondency. I had never 
bnfo^e heard of her ; but the other day I got 
her poems, which for several reasons, some be- 
longing to the head, and others the offspring of 
the heart, give me a great deal of pleasure. I 
have little pretensions to critic lore ; there are, 
I think, two characteristic features in her poetry 
. — the unfettered wild flight of native genius, 
and the querulous sombre tenderness of " time- 
eettled sorrow." 

I only know what pleases me, often without 
being able to tell why. R. B. 



TO JOHN BALLANTYNB, ESQ. 

I The picture from which Beugo engraved the portrait 
alluded to in this letter, was painted by the now vene- 
rable Alexander Nasmj'th — the eldest of living British 
artists : — it is, with the exception of a profile by Miers, 
the only portrait for which we are quite sure that the 
poet sat.] 

Edinbiirgh, Feb. 24:th, 1787. 
My honoured Friend, 
1 WILL soon be with you now, in guid black 
prent ; — in a week or ten days at farthest. I 
im obliged, against my own wish, to print sub- 
Ecri^)ers' names; so if any of my Ayr friends 
have subscription bills, they must be sent in to 
Creech directly. I am getting my phiz done by 
in eminent engraver, and if it can be ready in 
iime, I will appear in my book, looking like all 
tiher fools to my title-page. R. B. 



XLVIII. 
TO THE EARL OF GLENCATRN. 



fT 16 Earl of Glencairn seems to have refused, from 
•o^j >«s of delicacy, the request of the poet: the verses, 



long lost, were at last found, and are now, through tin 
kindness of my friend, Major James Glencnirn Burns, 
printed with tlie rest of his eminent father's works.] 

Edinburgh, 178'7 
My Lord, 

I WANTED to purchase a profile of your lord 
ship, which I was told was to be got in town ; 
but I am truly sorry to see that a blunderii^ 
painter has spoiled a "human face divine' 
The enclosed stanzas I intended to have writteia 
below a picture or profile of your lordship, 
could I have been so happy as to procure oua 
with anything of a likeness. 

As I will soon return to my shades, I wanted 
to have something like a material object for my 
gratitude ; I wanted to have it in my power to 
say to a friend, there is my noble patron, my 
generous benefactor. Allow me, my lord, to 
publish these verses. I conjure your lordship, 
by the honest throe of gratitude, by the gene- 
rous wish of benevolence, by all the powers and 
feelings which compose the magnanimous mind, 
do not deny me this petition. I owe much to 
your lordship : and, what has not in some other 
instances always been the case with me, the 
weight of the obligation is a pleasing load. I 
trust I have a heart as independent as your 
lordship's, than which I can say nothing more ; 
and I would not be beholden to favours that 
would crucify my feelings. Tour dignified cha- 
racter in life, and manner of supporting that 
character, are flittering to my pride ; and I 
would be jealous of the purity of my grateful 
attachment, where I was under the patronage 
of one of the much favoured sons of fortune. 

Almost every poet has celebrated his palrona, 
particularly when they were names dear to fame 
and illustrious in their country ; allow me, then, 
my lord, if you think the verses have intrinsi« 
merit, to tell the world how much I have tin 
honour to be, 

Your lordship's highly indebted. 

And ever grateful humble servant, 
R B. 



XLIX. 
TO THE EARL OF BT5CHAN. 

[The Earl of Buchan, a man of talent, but more tha». 
tolerably vain, advised Burns to visit the battle-fieldj 
and scenes celebrated in song on the Scottish border, 
with the hope, perhaps, that he would drop a few ct lui 



540 



GENEKAL CORKESPONDEi^ rjE 



kappy verses in Dryburgh Abbey, the residence of his 
ovclship.] 

Mt Lord, 

The honour your lordship has done me, by 
your notice and advice in yours of the 1st in- 
titant, I shall ever gratefully remember : — 

" Praise from thy lips, 'tis mine with joy to boast, 
Tliey best can give it who deserve It most."' 

Your lordship touches the darling chord of my 
heart when you advise me to fire my muse at 
Scottish story and Scotch scenes. I -wish for 
nothing more than to make a leisurely pilgrim- 
age through my native country ; to sit and muse 
on those once hard-contended fields, where Cale- 
donia, rejoicing, saw her bloody lion borne 
through broken ranks to victory and fame ; and, 
catching the inspiration, to pour the deathless 
names in song. But, my lord, in the midst of 
these enthusiastic reveries, a long-visaged, dry, 
moral-looking phantom strides across my 
imagination, and pronounces these emphatic 
words : — - 

"I, Wisdom, dwell with Prudence. Friend, 
I do not come to open the ill-closed wounds of 
your follies and misfortunes, merely to give you 
pain : I wish through these wounds to imprint a 
lasting lesson on your heart. I will not mention 
how many of my salutary advices you have des- 
pised : I have given you line upon line and pre- 
cept upon precept ; and while I was chalking 
out to you the straight way to wealth and cha- 
racter, with audacious effrontery you have zig- 
zagged across the path, contemning me to my 
face : you know the consequences. It is not 
yet three months since home was so hot for you 
that you were on the wing for the western shore 
j){ the Atlantic, not to make a fortune, but to 
hide your misfortune. 

"Now that your dear-loved Scotia puts it in 
your power to return to the situation of your 
forefathers, will you follow these will-o'-wisp 
meteors of fancy and whim, till they bring you 
once more to the brink of i-uin ? I grant that 
(he utmost ground you can occupy is but half a 
step from the veriest poverty; but still it is half 
a step from it. If all that I can urge be ineffec- 
tual, let her who seldom calls to you in vain, 
let the call of pride prevail with you. You know 
"low you feel at the iron gripe of ruthless op- 
pression : you know how you bear the galling 
♦neer of contumelious greatness. I hold you 
»iit the conveniences, the comforts of life, in- 
Imitated from Pope's Eloisa to Abelard. 



dependence, and character^ ou tie one hand ; 1 
tender you civility, dependence, and wretched- 
ness, on the other. I will not insult your vm.* 
derstanding by bidding you make a choice." 

This, my lord, is unanswerable. I must i-e- 
turn tti my humble station, and woo my rustio 
musa in my wonted way at the plough-tail. 
Still, my lord, while the drops of life warm my 
heart, gratitude to that dear-loved country in 
which I boast my birth, and gratitude to thoM 
her distinguished sons who have honoured m« 
so much with their patronage and approbation, 
shall, while stealing through my humble shades, 
ever distend my bosom, and at times, as now, 
draw forth the swelling tear. R. B, 



TO MR. JAMES CANDLISH. 

[James Candlish, a student of medicine, was well ac 
quainted with the poetry of Lowe, author of that subliml 
lyric, " Mary's Dream," and at the request of Burns sent 
Lowe's classic song of " Pompey's Ghost," to the Mu- 
sical Museum.] 

Edinburgh, March 21, 1787. 
My evee. deak old Acquaintance, 

I was equally surprised and pleased at your 
letter, though I dare say you will think by my 
delaying so long to write to you that I am so 
drowned in the intoxication of good fortune as 
to be indifferent to old, and once dear con- 
nexions. The truth is, I was determined to 
write a good letter, full of argument, amplifi- 
cation, erudition, and, as' Bayes says, all that. 
I tIftDught of it, and thought of it, and, by my 
soul, I could not ; and, lest you should mistake 
the cause of my silence, I just sit down to tell 
you so. Don't give yourself credit, though, that 
the strength of your logic scares me : the truth 
is, I never mean to meet you on that ground at 
all. You have shown me one thing which was 
to be demonstrated : that strong pride of rea- 
soning, with a little affectation of singularity, 
may mislead the best of hearts. I likewise, 
since you and I were first acquainted, in tho 
pride of despising old woman's stories, ventured 
in " the daring path Spinosa trod ;" but experi- 
ence of the weakness, not the strength of human 
powers, made me glad to grasp at revealed 
religion. 

I am still, in the Apostle Paul's phrase, 
" The old man with his deeds," as when wf 



OF ROBEET BURNS 



Mi 



irere sporting about the " Lady Thorn." I shall 
be four weeks here yet at least ; and so I shall 
expect to hear from you ; welcome sense, wel- 
oome nonsense. 

I am, with the warmest sincerity, 

R. B. 



TO . 

[The name or •»- friend to whom this letter was ad- 
ressed is still unknown, tliough known to Dr. Curne. 
The Esculapian Club of Edinburgh have, since t!ie 
death of Burns, added some iron-work, with an inscrip- 
tion in honour o-' the Ayrshire poet, to the original head- 
itone. The cost to the poet was £5 10s.] 

Edinburgh, March, 1787. 
Mt deak Sik, 

You may think, and too justly, that I am a 
selfish, ungrateful fellow, having received so 
many repeated instances of kindness from you, 
and yet never putting pen to paper to say thank 
you ; but if you knew what a devil of a life my 
conscience has led me on that account, your 
good heart would think yourself too much 
avenged. By the bye, there is nothing in the 
whole frame of man which seems to be so unac- 
countable as that thing called conscience. Had 
the troublesome yelping cur powers efficient to 
prevent a mischief, he might be of use ; but at 
the beginning of the business, his feeble efforts 
are to the workings of passion as the infant 
frosts of an autumnal morning to the unclouded 
fervour of the ri^ng sun: and no sooner are 
the tumultuous doings "of the wicked deed over, 
than, amidst the bitter native consequences of 
folly, in the very vortex of our horrors, up 
starts conscience, and harrows us with the feel- 
ings of the damned. 

I have enclosed you, by way of expiation, 
lome verse and prose, that, if they merit a place 
m your truly entertaining miscellany, you are 
Irelcome to. The prose extract is literally as 
VIr. Sprott sent it me. 

The inscription on the stone is as follows : — 

"HERE LIES ROBERT FERGUSSON, POET. 

Born, September 5th, 1751— Died, 16th October, 1774. 

" No sculptur'd marble here, nor pompous lay, 

' No storied urn or animated bust;' 

This simple stone directs pale Scotia s way 

. To pour her sorrows o'er her poet- 3 lust." 

'>n the other side of the stone is as follows : 



"By special grant of the managers to Robert Burns, 
who erected this stone, this burial place is to remain fo» 
ever sacred to the memory of Robert Fergusson." 



Sessioii-house, within the Kirk of Canongate, tfit 

tive7ity-second day of February, one tkoutani 

seven hundred eighty-seven years. 
Sederunt of the Managers of the Kirk and Kiri 
Yard funds of Canongate. 

Which day, the treasurer to the said fundi 
produced a letter from Mr. Robert Burns, of 
date the 6th current, which was read and ap- 
pointed to be engrossed in their sederunt book, 
and of which letter the tenor follows • — 

" To the honourable baillies of Canongate, 
Edinburgh. — Gentlemen, I am sorry to be told 
that the remains of Robert Fergusson, the so 
justly celebrated poet, a man whose talents for 
ages to come will do honour to our Caledonian 
name, lie in your church-yard among the ignoble 
dead, unnoticed and unknown. 

"Some memorial to direct the steps of the 
lovers of Scottish song, when they wish to shed 
a tear over the ' narrow house' of the bard who 
is no more, is surely a tribute due to Fergus- 
son's memory : a tribute I wish to have the 
honour of paying. 

"I petition you then, gentlemen, to permit 
me to lay a simple stone over his revered ashes, 
to remain an unalienable property to his death- 
less fame. I have the honour to be, gentlemen, 
your very humble servant (sic subscribitur), 

BoBEET Burns." 

Thereafter the said managers, in considera- 
tion of the laudable and disinterested motion 
of Mr. Burns, and the propriety of his request, 
did, and hereby do, unanimously, grant powes 
and liberty to the said Robert Burns to ei ect a 
headstone at the grave of the said Robert Fer- 
gusson, and to keep up and preserve the sai»« 
to his memory in all time coming. Extracted 
forth of the records of the managers, by 

William Sprott Clerk 



Lir. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

[The poet alludes in this letter to tjie profits of tin 
Edinburgh edition of his Poems: the exact sum ii ao 



342 



OENEEAL CORRESPONDENCE 



wnsre stated, but it could not have been less than seven 
Hundred pounds.] 

Edinburgh, March 22d, 1787. 
Madam, 
I KBAD your letter with watery eyes. A little, 
rerv little while ago, I had scarce a friend but 
the stubborn pride of my own bosom : now I 
am distinguished, patronized, befriended by you. 
Vour friendly advices, I will not give them the 
jold name of criticisms, I receive with reve- 
rence. I have made some small alterations in 
what I before had printed. I have the advice 
. of some very judicious friends among the literati 
here, but with them I sometimes find it neces- 
sary to claim the privilege of thinking for my- 
self. The noble Earl of Glencairn, to whom I 
owe more than to any man, does me the honour 
of giving me hi§ strictures : his hints, with re- 
spect to impropriety or indelicacy, I follow im- 
plicitly. 

You kindly interest yourself in my future 
views and prospects ; there I can give you no 
light. It is all 

" Dark as was Chaos ere the infant sun 
Was roll'd together, or had tried his beams- 
Athwart the gloom profound."! 

The appellation of a Scottish bard, is by far 
my highest pride ; to continue to deserve it is 
my most exalted ambition. Scottish scenes 
and Scottish story are the themes I could wish 
to sing. I have no dearer aim than to have it 
in my power, unplagued with the routine of 
business, for which heaven knows I am unfit 
enough, to make leisurely pilgrimages through 
Caledonia ; to sit on the fields of her battles ; 
to wander on the romantic banks of her rivers ; 
and to muse by the stately towers or vene- 
rable ruins, once the honoured abodes of her 
heroes. 

But these are all Utopian thoughts : I have 
dallied long enough with life ; 'tis time to be in 
earnest. I have a fond, an aged mother to care 
for : and some other bosom ties perhaps equally 
t«nier Where the individual only suifers by 
the consequences of his own thoughtlessness, 
indolence, or folly, he may be excusable; nay, 
shining abilities, and some of the nobler virtues, 
may half sanctify a heedless character ; but 
where God and nature have intrusted the wel- 
fare of others to his care ; where the trust is 
sacred, and the ties are dear, that man must 
he far gone in selfishness, or strangely lost to 

1 Blair's Grave. 



reflection, whom thes£ connexions will not rous4 
to exertion. 

I guess that I shall clear between two anf 
three hundred pounds by my authorship ; with 
that sum I intend, so far as I may be said to 
have any intention, to return to my old ac- 
quaintance, the plough, and, if I can meet with 
a lease by which I can live, to commence farmer. 
I do not intend to give up poetry ; being bred 
to labour, secures me independence, and the 
muses are my chief, sometimes have been my 
only enjoyment. If my practice second my 
resolution, I shall have principally at heart the 
serious business of life; but while following my 
plough, or building up my shocks, I shall cast a 
leisure glance to that dear, that only feature of 
my character, which gave me the notice of my 
country, and the patronage of a Wallace. 

Thus, honoured Madam, I have given you the 
bard, bis situation, and his views, native as 
they are in his own bosom. K. B. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

[This seems to be a letter acknowledging the payment 
of Mrs. Dunlop'fi subscription for his poems.] 

Edinburgh, Ibth April, 1787. 
Madam, 
Theke is an afi^ectation of gratitude which 1 
dislike. The periods of Johnson and the pause 
of Sterne, may hide a selfish heart. For my 
part. Madam, I trust I have too much pride foi 
servility, and too little prudence for selfishness. 
I have this moment broken open your letter, 
but 

"Rude am I in speech, 
And therefore little can I grace my cause 
In speaking for myself — " 2 

so I shall not trouble you with any fine speeihes 
and hunted figures. I shall just lay my haul 
on my heart and say, I hope I shall ever have 
the truest, the warmest sense of your gooinfss 
I come abroad in print, for certain en Wed 
nesday. Your orders I shall punctually attend 
to; only, by the way, I must tell you that ] 
was paid before for Dr. Moore's and Miss Wil- 
liams's copies, through the medium of Commis- 
sioner Cochrane in this place, but that we can 
settle when I have the honour of waiting on you 



2 From Othello. 



OF ROBERT BURNS 



343 



Dr. Smith > was just gone to London the mor- 
ning before I received your letter to him. 

R. B. 



TO MR. SIBBALD, 

BOOKSELLER IN EDINBURGH. 

[This letter first appeared in that very valuable work, 
Sii«holl'B Illustrations of Literature.] 

Lawn Market. 
Sir, 
So little am I acquainted with the words and 
maimers of the more public and polished walks 
cf life, that I often feel myself much embar- 
rassed how to express the feelings of my heart, 
particularly gratitude : — 

■" Rude am I in my speech. 
And little therefore shall I grace my cause 
In speaking for myself — " 

The warmth with which you have befriended 
an obscure man and a young author in the last 
three magazines — I can only say, Sir, I feel the 
weight of the obligation, I wish I could express 
my sense of it. In the mean time accept of the 
conscious acknowledgment from, 
Sir, 
Your obliged servant, 

R. B. 



LV. 
TO DR. MOORE. 

[The book to which the poet alludes, was the well- 
known View of Society by Dr. Moore, a work of spirit 
and observation.] 

Edinburgh, 23d April, 1787. 

I RECEIVED the books, and sent the one you 
mentioned to Mrs. Dunlop. I am ill skilled in 
beating the c J7erts of imagination for metaphors 
&f gratitude. I ftank you. Sir, for the honour 
you have done me ; and to my latest hour will 
warmly remember it. To be highly pleased with 
^ our book is what I have in common with the 
World ; but to regard these volumes as a mark 
of the author's friendly esteem, is a still more 
supreme gratification. 

I leave Edinburgh in the course of ten days 
or a fortnight, »uJ after a few pilgrimages over 
Home of the clasac ground of Caledonia, Cow- 

1 Adam Smith. 



den Knowes, Banks of Yarrow, Tweed, &c.. 
I shall return to my rural shades, in all likeli- 
hood never more to quit them. I have formed 
niany intimacies and friendships here, but I am 
afraid they are all of too tender a construction 
to bear carriage a hundred" and fifty miles. To 
the rich, the great, the fashionable, the polite, I 
have no equivalent to offer; and I am afraid m;5 
meteor appearance will by no means entitle me 
to a settled correspondence with any of you, who 
are the permanent lights of genius and literature. 
My most respectful compliments to Miss 
Williams. If once this tangent flight of mine 
were over; and I were returned to my wonted 
leisurely motion in my old circle, I may pro- 
bably endeavour to return her poetic compli- 
ment in kind. R. B. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

[This letter was in answer to one of criticism and v»- 
monstrance, from Mrs. Dunlop, respecting " The Dream.,'- 
which she had begged the poet to omit, lest it sho'siU 
harm his fortunes with the world.] 



BOth April, 1787. 

Your criticisms. Madam, I under- 
stand very well, and could have wished to have 
pleased you better. You are right in your 
guess that I am not very amenable to counsel. 
Poets, much my superiors, have so flattered 
those who possessed the adventitious qualities 
of wealth and power, that I am determined to 
flatter no created being, either in prose or 
verse. 

I set as little by princes, lords, clergy, critics, 
&c. , as all these respective gentry do by my bard- 
ship. I know what I may expect from the 
world, by and by — illiberal abuse, and perhaps 
contemptuous neglect. 

I am happy. Madam, that some of my Dwn 
favourite pieces are distinguished by ycur par- 
ticular approbation. For my "Dream," which 
has unfortunately incurred your loyal displea- 
sure, I hope in four weeks, or less, to have the 
honour of appearing, at Dunla p, in its defencf 
in person. B B 



B44 



OBNEKAL CORRESPONDENCE 



LVII. 
TO THE REV. DR. HUGH BLAIR. 

[The ans-wer of Dr. Blair to this letter contains the 

fol owing passage: "Your situation, as you say, was 
Edeed very singular : and in being brought out all at 
oa< e from the shades of deepest privacy to so great a 
iaa!» of public notice and observation, you had to stand 
A severe itial. I am happy you have stood it so well, 
?jsa, as far as I have knovwi, or heard, though in the 
gad St of many temptations, without reproach to your 
chaisBtsror fcshaviour.^'] 

Lawn-market, Edinhurgh, 3rf May, 1787. 
Ebtbbbnd and much-respected Sib, 

I LEAVE Edinburgh to-morrow morning, but 
could not go without troubling you with half a 
line, sincerely to thank you for the kindness, 
patronage, and friendship you have shown me. 
I often felt the embarrassment of my singular 
situation ; drawn forth from the veriest shades 
of life to the glare of remark ; and honoured by 
the notice of those illustrious names of my coun- 
try whose works, while they are applauded to 
the end of time, -vf ill ever instruct and mend the 
heart. However the meteor-like novelty of my 
appearance in the world might attract notice, 
and honour me with the acquaintance of the per- 
manent lights of genius and literature, those 
who are truly benefactors of the immortal na- 
ture of man, I knew very well that my utmost 
merit was far unequal to the task of preserving 
that character when once the novelty was over; 
I have made up my mind that abuse, or almost 
even neglect, will not surprise me in my quar- 
ters. 

I have sent you a proof impression of Beugo's 
work' for me, done on Indian paper, as a tri- 
fiing but sincere testimony with what heartwarm 
gratitude I am, &c. R. 'B. 



LVIII. 
TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN. 

{.The poet addressed the following letter to the Earl 
tif Glencairn, when he commenced his journey to the 
Border. Ir, was first printed in the third edition of Lock 
tart's Life of Burjs; an eloquent and manly work.] 

Mv Lord, 
I GO away to -morrow morning early, and al- 
low me to vent the fulness of my heart, in 
Wkasking your lordship for all that patronage. 



The vorra't of the poet after Nasmyth. 



that benevolence and that friendship with which 
you have honoured me. With brimful eyes, I 
pray that you may find in that great Beings 
whose image you so nobly bear, that friend 
which I have found in you. My gratitude is not 
selfish design — that I disdain — it is not dodging 
after the heels of greatness — that is an offering 
you disdain. It is a feeling of the same kind 
with my devotion. R. B. 



TO MR. WILLIAM DUNBAR. 

[William Dunbar, Colonel of the Crochallan Fencibles. 
The name has a martial sound, but the corps which he 
commanded was a club of wits, whose courage was exer- 
cised on "paitricks, teals, moorpowts, and .plovers."] 

Lawn-market, Monday morning. 
Dear Sib, 

In justice to Spenser, I must acknowledge 
that there is scarcely a poet in the language 
could have been a more agreeable present to 
me ; and in justice to you, allow me to say, Sir, 
that I have not met with a man in Edinburgh to 
whom I would so willingly have been indebted 
for the gift. The tattered rhymes I herewith 
present you, and the handsome volumes of 
Spender for which I am so much indebted to 
your goodness, may perhaps be not in proportion 
to one another ; but be that as it may, my gift, 
though far less valuable, is as sincere a mark 
of esteem as yours. 

The time is approaching when I shall return 
to my shades ; and I am afraid my numerous 
Edinburgh friendships are of so tender a con- 
struction, that they will not bear carriage with 
me. Yours is one of the few that I could wish 
of a more robust constitution. It is indeed 
very probable that when I leave this city, we 
part never more to meet in this sublunary 
sphere ; but I have a strong fancy that in some 
future eccentric planet, the comet of happier 
systems than any with which astronomy is yet 
acquainted, you and I, among the harum scarum 
sons of imagination and whim, with a hearty 
shake of a hand, a metaphor and a laugh, shall 
recognise old acquaintance : 

" Where wit may sparkle all its rays, 
Uncurs'd with caution's fears; 
That pleasure, basking m the blaze 
Reioice for endless vears." 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



o4s 



I have the honour to be, with the -warmest 
iincerity, dear Sir, &c. R. B. 



TO JAMES JOHNSON. 

(James Johnson was an engraver in Edinburgh, and 
MUprietor of the Musical Museum; a truly national 
woiky for which Burns wrote or amended many songs.] 

Lawn-market, Friday noon, 3 May, 1787. 
Dear Sm, 
. I HAYE sent you a song never before known, 
for your collection ; the air by M'Gibbon, but 
I know not the author of the words, as I got it 
from Dr. Blacklock. 

Farewell, my dear Sir! I wished to have seen 
fou, but I have been dreadfully throng, as I 
march to-morrow. Had my acquaintance with 
you been a little older, I would have asked the 
favour of your correspondence, as I have met 
with few people whose company and conversa- 
tion gives me so much pleasure, because I have 
met with few whose sentiments are so congenial 
ro my own. 

When Dunbar and you meet, tell him that I 
lef' Edinburgh with the idea of him hanging 
somewhere about my heart. 

Keep the original of the song till we meet 
»gain, whenever that may be. R. B. 



TO WILLIAM CREECH, ESQ. 

EDINBURGH. 

jThis characteristic letter was written durmg the 
pviet'? border tour : he narrowly escaped a soaking with 
vr..iskey, as well as with water ; for, according to the 
Cttrick Shepherd, " a couple of Yarrow lads, lovers of 
'^tiey and punch, awaited his coming to Selkirk, but 
wuuij aot believe that the parson-looking, black-avised 
»si, who rode up to the inu, more like a drouket craw 
than a poet, could be Burns, and so went disappointed 
iway."] . 

Selkirk, 18th May, 1787. 
My honoured Friend, 
The enclosed I have just wrote, nearly ex- 
tempore, in a solitary inn in Selkirk, after a 
miserable wet day's riding. I have been over 
Siost of East Lothian, Berwick, Roxburgh, and 

• James, Earl of Glencaim, 



Selkirk-shires; and next week I begin a tea 
through the north of England. Yesterday 1 
dined with Lady Harriet, sister to my noble 
patron,! Quem Deus conservet! I would write til] 
I would tire you as much with dull prose, as I 
dare say by this time you are with wretched 
verse, but I am jaded to death ; so, with a 
grateful farewell, 

I have the honour to be. 

Good Sir, yours sincerely, 

R. B. 

Auld chuckle Reekie's sair distrest, 
Down drops her ance weel burnish'd crest, 
Nae joy her bonnie buskit nest 

Can yield ava ; 
Her darling bird that she loves best, 

Willie's awa.2 



Lxn. 

TO MR. PATfsON, 

BOOKSELLER, PAISLEY. 

[This letter has a business air about it : the name of 
Patison is nowhere else to be found in the poet-s corre» 
pondence.] 

Berry-well, near Dunse, May 17 th, 1787 
Dear Sir, 
I AM sorry I was out of Edinburgh, making a 
slight pilgrimage to the classic scenes of this 
country, when I was favoured with yours of the 
11th instant, enclosing an order of the Paisley 
banking company on the royal bank, for twenty- 
two pounds seven shillings sterling, payment in 
full, after carriage deducted, for ninety copies 
of my book I sent you. According to your 
motions, I see you will have left Scotland 
before this reaches you, otherwise I would send 
you " Holy Willie" with all my heart. I was 
so hurried that I absolutely forgot several things 
I ought to have minded, among the rest sending 
books to Mr. Cowan ; but any order of youra 
will be answered at Creech's shop. You will 
please remember that non-subscribers pay six 
shillings, this is Creech's profit ; but those who 
have subscribed, though their names have been 
neglected in the pi-inted list, which is very in- 
correct, are supplied at subscription price. I 
was not at Glasgow, nor do I intend for Lon- 
don; and I think Mrs. Fame is very idle to telj 
t , 

2 See ^ em LXXXIII. 



bi6 



GENERAL COHRESPONDENCE 



80 many lies on a poor poet. When you or Mr. 
Cowan write for copies, if you should want any 
direct to Mr. Hill, at Mr. Creech's shop, and I 
write to Mr. Hill by this post, to answer either 
of your orders. Hill is Mr. Creech's first clerk, 
and Creech himself is presently in London. I 
(uppos3 I shall have the pleasure, against your 
eturn to Paisley, of assuring you how much I 
am, dear Sir, your obliged humble servant, 

E. B. 



TO W. NICOL, ESQ., 

MASTER OF THE HIGH SCHOOL, EDINBUKGH. 

[Jenny Geddes was a zealous old woman, who threw 
the stool on which she sat, at the Dean of Edinburgh's 
heaa, when, in 1637, he attempted to introduce a Scottish 
Liturgy, and cried as she threw, " "Villain, wilt thou say 
the mass at my lug!" The poet named his mare after 
tuJB virago.] 

Carlisle, June 1., 1787. 
Kind, honest-hearted Willie, 

I'm sitten down here after seven and forty 
miles ridin', e'en as forjesket and forniaw'd as 
a forfoughten cock, to gie you some notion o' 
my land lowper-like stravaguin sin the sorrow- 
fu' hour that I sheuk hands and parted wi' auld 
Reekie. 

My auld, ga'd gleyde o' a meere has huch- 
yall'd up hill and down brae, in Scotland and 
England, as teugh and birnie as a vera devil wi' 
me. It's true, she's as poor's a sang-maker and as 
hard's a kirk, and tipper-taipers when she taks 
the gate, first like a lady's gentlewoman in a 
minuwae, or a hen on a het girdle ; but she's a 
yauld, poutherie Girran for a' that, and has a 
Btomack like Willie Stalker's meere that wad 
hae disgeested tumbler-wheels, for she'll whip 
me aff her five stimparts o' the best aits at a 
down-sittin and ne'er fash her thumb. When 
ence her ringbanes and spavies, her crucks and 
fframps, are fairly soupl'd, she beets to, beets 
ti, and ay the hindmost hour the tightest. I 
6ould wager her price to a thretty pennies, that 
for twa or three wooks ridin at fifty miles a day, 
the deil-stricket a five gallopers acqueesh Clyde 
and Whithorn could cast saut on her tail. 

I hae dander'd owre a' the kintra frae Dum- 
bar to Selcraig, and hae forgather'd wi' monie 
.a guid fallow, and monie a weelfar'd huzzie. I 
toet wi' twa ink quines in particular, ane o' 
khem a sonsie, fine, fodgel lass, baith braw and 



bonnie ; the tither was a clean-shankit, straughtj 
tight, weelfar'd winch, as blythe'sa lintwhiteont 
flowerie thorn, and as sweet and modest's a neW" 
blawn plumrose in a hazle shaw. They wer« 
baith bred to mainers by the beuk, and onie ane 
o' them had asmuckle smeddum and rumblegum- 
tion as the half o' some presbytries that you and 
I baith ken. They play'd me sik a deevil o' a 
shavie that I daur say if my harigals were turn'd 
out, ye wad see twa nicks i' the heart o' me like 
the mark o' a kail-whittle in a castock. 

I was gaun to write you a lang pystle, but, 
Gude forgie me, I gat mysel sae noutouriouslj 
bitchify'd the day after kail-time, that I can 
hardly stoiter but and ben. 

My best respecks to the guidwife and a' oul 
common friens, especiall Mr. and Mrs. Cruik 
shank, and the honest guidman o' Jock's Lodge. 

I'll be in Dumfries the morn gif the beast be 
to the fore, and the branks bide hale. 
Gude be wi' you, Willie ! Amen 1 

R. B. 



LXIV. 
TO MR. JAMES SMITH, 

AT MILLER AND SMITH' S OFFICE, LINLITHGOW. 

[Burns, it seems by this letter, had still a belief that 
he would be obliged to try his fortune in the West Indies: 
he soon saw how hollow all the hopes were, which had 
been formed by his friends of "pension, post •r place," 
in his native land .] 

Mauchline, 11th June, 1787. 
My ever dear Sir, 

I DATE this from Mauchline, where I arrived 
on Friday even last. I slept at John Dow's, and 
called for my daughter. Mr. Hamilton and 
family ; your mother, sister, and brother ; my 
quondam Eliza, &c., all well. If anything had 
been wanting to disgust me completely at Ar- 
mour's family, their mean, servile compliance 
would have done it. 

Give me a spirit like my favourite hero, MU- 

ton's Satan: 

Hail, horrors ! hai , 
Infernal world ! and thou profoundest nell. 
Receive thy new possessor ! he who Inngs 
A mind not to be chang'd by place or time! 

I cannot settle to my mind. — Farming, tne 
only thing of which i know anything, and 
heaven above knows but little do I understand 
of that, I cannot, dare not risk on farms ag 
they are. If I do not fix I will go for Jamaica' 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



'611 



Bbould I stay in an unsettled state at home, I 
would only dissipate my little fortune, and 
ruin what 1 intend shall compensate my little 
ones, for tue stigma I have brought on their 
pamee. 

I shall write you more at large soon ; as this 
letter costs you no postage, if it be worth read- 
ing you cannot complain of your penny-worth. 
I am ever, my dear P?>, 
Yours, 

R. B. 

P.S. The cloot has unfortunately broke, but 
I have provided a fine bufl'alo-horn, on which I 
am going to affix the same cipher which you 
will remember was on the lid of the cloot. 



LXV. 
TO WILLIAM NICOL, ESQ. 

i^lhe charm which Dumfries threw over the poet, 
seems to have dissolved like a spell, when he sat down 
in Ellisland : he spoke, for a time, with little respect of 
either place or people.] 

Mauchline, June 18, 1787. 
My dear Fmend, 

1 AM now arrived safe in my native country, 
after a very agreeable jaunt, and have the plea- 
sure to find all my friends well. I breakfasted 
with your gray-headed, reverend friend, Mr. 
Smith ; and was highly pleased both with the 
cordial welcome he gave me, and his most ex- 
cellent appearance and sterling good sense. 

I have been with Mr. Miller at Dalswinton, 
and am to meet him again in August. From 
my view of the lands, and his reception of my 
hardship, my hopes in that business are rather 
mended ; but still they are but slender. 

I am quite charmed with Dumfries folks — 
Mr. Burnside, the clergyman, in particular, is 
a man whom I shall ever gratefully remember ; 
and his wife, Gude forgie me! I had almost 
broke the tenth commandment on her account. 
Simplicity, elegance, good sense, sweetness of 
disposition, good humour, kind hospitality, are 
the constituents of her manner and heart : in 
short — but if I say one word more about her, I 
Shall be directly in love with her. 

I never, my friend, thought mankind very ca- 
pable of anything generous ; but the stateliness 
»f the patricians in Edinbui-gh, and the servility 
1.1 111^ plebeian brethren (who perhaps formerly 
Inred me askance) since I returned home, 



have n'early put me out of conceit altogether 
with my species. I have bought a pocket Mil 
ton, which I carry perpetually about with me, 
in order to study the sentiments — the dauntlesi 
magnanimity, the intrepid, unyielding inle- 
pendence, the desperate daring, and noble de- 
fiance of hardship, in that great personage, Sa- 
tan. 'Tis true, I have just now a little cash; 
but I am afraid the star that hitherto has shed 
its malignant, purpose-blasting rays full in my 
zenith ; that noxious plane"t so baneful in its 
influences to the rhyming tribe, I much dread 
it is not yet beneath my horizon. — Misfortune 
dodges the path of human life ; the poetic mino 
finds itself miserably deranged in, and unfit foi 
the walks of business ; add to all, that thought- 
less follies and hare-brained whims, like so many 
iffnes fatui, eternally diverging from the right 
line of sober discretion, sparkle with step-be- 
witching blaze in the idly-gazing eyes of the 
poor heedless. bard, till, pop, " he falls like Lu- 
cifer, never to hope again." God grant this 
may be an unreal picture with respect to me ! 
but should it not, I have very little dependence 
on mankind. I will close my letter with this 
tribute my heart bids me pay you — the many 
ties of acquaintance and friendship which 1 
have, or think I have in life, I haVe felt along 
the lines, and, damn them, they are almost all 
of them of such frail contexture, thai I am sure 
they would not stand the breath of the least ad 
verse breeze of fortune ; but from you, my ev^ 
dear Sir, I look with confidence for the aposto- 
lic love that shall wait on me "through good 
report and bad report" — the love which Solo- 
mon emphatically says "is strong as death." 
My compliments to Mrs. Nicol, and all the ciicle 
of our common friends. 

P. S. I shall be in Edinburgh about the lal 
ter end of July, R. B 



TO MR. JAMES CANDLISH. 

[Candlish was a classic scholar, but had 8 love foi th« 
Bongs of Scotland, as well as for the poetry of Greec« 
and Rome.] 

minburgky 1787. 
Mt dear Friend, 
If once I were gone from this scene of hurry 
and dissipation, I promise myself the pleasure 
I of that correspondence being renewed which 



848 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



has been so long broken. At present I have 
time for nothing. Dissipation and business en- 
gross every moment. I am engaged in assist- 
ing an honest Scotch enthusiast,' a friend of 
mine, who is an engraver, and has taken it into 
iis head to publish a collection of all our songs 
set tc music, of vrhich the words and music are 
done by Scotsmen. This, you will easily guess, 
is an undertaking exactly to my taste. I have 
ecllected, begged, borrowed, and stolen, all the 
flongs I could meet with. Pompey's Ghost, words 
and music, I beg from you immediately, to go 
into his second number: the first is already 
published. I shall show you the first number 
when I see you in Glasgow, which will be in a 
fortnight or less. Do be so kind as to send me 
the song in a day or two ; you cannot imagine 
how much it will oblige me. 

Direct to me at Mr. W. Cruikshank's, St. 
James's Square, New Town, Edinburgh, 

R. B. 



TO ROBERT AINSLIE, ESQ. 

t" Burns had a memory stored with the finest poetical 
passages, virhich he was in the habit of quoting most 
iptly in his correspondence with his friends : and he de- 
Jighted also in repeating them in the company of those 
friends who enjoyed them." These are the words of 
A. nslie, of Berrywell, to whom this letter is addressed.] 

Arracher, 28th June, 1787. 
My dear Sir, 
I WHITE on my tour through a country where 
savage streams tumble over savage mountains, 
thinly overspread with savage flocks, which 
sparingly support as savage inhabitants. My 
last stage was Inverary — to-morrow night's 
stage Dumbarton. I ought sooner to have an- 
swered your kind letter, but you know I am a 
man of many sins. R B. 



LXVIII. 
TO WILLIAM NICOL, ESQ. 

[This visit to Auchtertyre produced that sweet lyric, 
Mginning " Blythe, blythe and merry was she ;" and the 

• Johnson, tj e 5 ublisher and proprietor of the Musical 
VaMum. 



lady who inspired it was at his side, when he WTot« tbii 
-etter.] 

Auchtertyre, Monday, June, 1787. 
Mt dear Sir, 
I FIND myself very comfortable here, neither 
oppressed by ceremony nor mortified by neg- 
lect. Lady Augusta is a most engaging woman, 
and very happy in her family, whic: makes 
one's outgoings a-nd incomings very agreeable. 
I called at Mr. Ramsay's 'of Auchtertyre as 1 
came up the country, and am so delighted with 
him that I shall certainly accept of his invita- 
tion to spend a day or two with hin *8 I return. 
I leave this place on Wednesday or Thursday. 
Make my kind compliments to Mr. and Mrs 
Cruikshank and Mrs. Nicol, if she is returned. 
I am ever, dear Sir, 

Your deeply indebted, 

R. B. 



TO WILLIAM CRUIKSHANK, ESQ. 

ST. JAMES's SQUARE, EDINBURGH. 

[At the house of William Cru kshank, one zi me mas- 
ters of the High School, in Edinburgh, Burns passed 
many agreeable hours.] 

Auchtertyre, Monday morning. 
I HAVE nothing, my dear Sir, to- write to you 
but that I feel myself exceedingly confortably 
situated in this good family : just notice enough 
to make me easy but not to embarrass me. I was 
storin-staid two days at the foot of the Ochill- 
hills, with Mr. Trait of Herveyston and Mr. 
Johnston of Alva, but was so well pleased that 
I shall certainly spend a day on the banks of 
the Devon as I return. I leave this place I 
suppose on Wednesday, and shall devote a da^ 
to Mr. Ramsay at Auchtertyre, near Stlrlirg; 
a man to whose worth I cannot do justice. Mj 
respectful kind compliments to Mrs. Cruik- 
shank, and my dear little Jeanie, and if yon 
see Mr. Masterton, please remember me to him 
I am ever, 

My dear Sir, &3. 

R. B. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



349 



TO MR. JAMES SMITH, 

LINLITHGOW. 

pri e young ladr to whom the poet alludes in this let- 
ter, was very beautiful, and very proud : it is said she 
gave him a specimen of both her temper and her pride, 
when he tJucied on the subject of love.] 

June 30, 178ff. 
Mt deak Friend, 
On our return, at a Highland gentleman's 
hospitable mansion, we fell in with a meiry 
party, and danced till the ladies left us, at three 
in the morning. Our dancing was none of the 
French or English insipid formal movements ; 
the ladies sung Scotch songs like angels, at 
intervals ; then we flew at Bab at the Bowster, 
TuUochgorum, Loch Erroch Side, &c., like 
midges sporting in the mottie sun, or craws 
prognosticating a storm in a hairst day. — When 
the dear lasses left us, we ranged round the 
bowl till the good-fellow hour of six ; except a 
few minutes that we went out to pay our devo- 
tions to the glorious lamp of day peering over 
the towering top of Benlomond. We all kneeled ; 
our worthy landlords son held the bowl ; each 
man a full glass in his hand ; and I, as priest, 
repeated some rhyming nonsense, like Thomas- 
a-Ehymer's prophecies I suppose. — After a small 
refreshment of the gifts of Somnus, we pro- 
ceeded to spend the day on Lochlomond, and 
reach Dumbarton in the evening. We dined at 
another good fellow's house, and consequently, 
pushed the bottle ; when we went out to mount 
Dur horses, we found ourselves "No vera fou 
but gaylie yet." My two friends and I rode 
soberly down the Loch side, till by came a 
tTighlandman at the galjop, on a tolerably 
good horse, but which had nev^ known the 
ornaraents of iron or leather. We scorned to be 
tut-galloped by a Highlandman, so off we 
started, whip and spur. My companionc, though 
Bfcemingly gaily mounted, fell sadly astern ; but 
my old mare, Jenny Geddes, one of the Rosinante 
family, she strained past the Highlandman in 
gpite of all his efforts with the hair halter ; just 
as I was passing him, Donald wheeled his horse, 
as if to cross before me to mar my progress, 
when down came his horse, arnd threw his rider's 
breekless a — e in a dipt hedge ; and down came 
Jenny Geddea over all, and my hardship be- 
tween her and the Highlandman's horse. Jenny 
(reddes trode over me with such cautious re- 
ference, tnat matters were not so bad as might 



well have been expected ; so I came off with a 
few cuts and bruises, and a thorough resolution 
to be a pattern of sobriety for the future. 

I have yet fixed on nothing with respect to 
the serious business of life. I am, just as usual^ 
a rhyming, mason-making, raking, aimless, idle 
fellow. However, I shall somewhere have a 
farm soon. I was going to say, a wife too ; but 
that must never be my blessed lot. I am but a 
younger son of the house of Parnassus, and 
like other younger sons of great families, I may 
intrigue, if I choose to run all risks, but musi 
not marry. 

I am afraid 1 have almost ruined one source 
the principal one, indeed, of my former happi 
ness ; that eternal propensity I always had tc 
fall in love. My heart no more glows with ff*- 
verish rapture. I have no paradisaical evening 
interviews, stolen from the restless cares and 
prying inhabitants of this weary world. I have 
only * * * *. This last is one of your distant 
acquaintances, has a fine figure, and elegant 
manners ; and in the train of some great folks 
whom you know, has seen the politest quarters 
in Europe. I do like her a good deal ; but what 
piques me is her conduct at the commencement 
of our acquaintance. I frequently visited her 

when I was in , and after passing regu 

larly the intermediate degrees between the dis 
tant formal bow and the familiar grasp round 
the waist, I ventured, in my careless way, to 
talk of friendship in rather ambiguous terms ; 

and after her return to , I wrote to her 

in the same style. Miss, construing my words 
fai'ther I suppose than even I intended, flew off 
in a tangent of female dignity and reserve, like 
a mounting lark in an April morning ; and wrote 
me an answer which measured me out very com- 
pletely what an immense way I had to travel 
before I could reach the climate of her favour 
But I am an old hawk at the sport, and wrot* 
her such a cool, deliberate, prudent reply, as 
brought my bird from her aerial towerings, pop, 
down at my foot, like Corporal Trim's hat. 

As for the rest of my acts, and my wars, and 
all my wise sayings, and why my mare "was 
called Jenny Geddes, they shall be recorded in 
a few weeks hence at Linlithgow, in the chrt)- 
nicles of your memory, by R B- 



S50 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



TO MR JOHN RICHMOND. 

[M.-. John Richmond, writer, was one of the poet's 
enrliest and firmest friends ; he shared his rooif with him 
when they met in Edinburgh, and did him many little 
DtfiRBs of kindness and regard.] 



I, 1th July, 1787. 
My deau Richmond, 

I AM all impatience to hear of your fate since 
the old confounder of right and wrong has 
turned you out of place, by his journey to an- 
Bwer his indictment at the bar of the other 
world. He will find the practice of the court so 
different from the practice in which he has for 
so many years been thoroughly hackneyed, that 
his friends, if he had any connexions truly of 
that kind, which I rather doubt, may well 
tremble for his sake. His chicane, his left- 
handed wisdom, which stood so firmly by him, 
to such good purpose, here, like other accom- 
plices in robbery and plunder, will, now the 
piratical business is blown, in all probability 
turn the king's evidences, and then the devil's 
bagpiper will touch him off " Bundle and go !" 

If he has left you any legacy, I beg your par- 
don for all this ; if not, I know you will swear 
to every word I said about him. 

I have fately been rambling over Jby Dumbar- 
ton and Inverary, and running a drunken race 
on the side of Loch Lomond with a wild High- 
kndman; his horse, which had never known 
*he ornaments of iron or leather, zigzagged 
across before my old spavin'd hunter, whose 
name is Jenny Geddes, and down came the 
Highlandman, horse and all, and down came 
Jenny and my hardship ; so I have got such a 
?kinful of bruises and wounds, that I shall be 
at leaot four weeks before I dare venture on my 
journey to Edinburgh. 

Not one new thing under the sun has hap- 
pened ir Mauchline since you left it. I hope 
this will find you as comfortably situated as 
formerly, or, if heaven pleases, more so ; but, 
ftt all events, I trust you will let me know of 
Bourse how matters stand with you, well or ill. 
'Tis but poor consolation to tell the world when 
matters go wrong ; but you know very well your 
jonnexion and mine stands on a diiferent 
\>otmg. 

I am ever, my dear friend, yours, 

R. B. 



LXXII. 

TO ROBERT AINSLIE, ESQ. 

[This letter, were proof wanting, shows the friendl) 
and familiar footing on which Burns stood with th« 
Ainslies, and more particularly with the author of thai 
popular work, the "Reasons for the Hope that isinua.'T 

Mauchline, 2Zd July, 1787, 
My deae, Ainslie, 

There is one thing for which I set great store 
by you as a friend, and it is this , that I have not 
a friend upon earth, besides your<5plf, to whom 
I can talk nonsense without forfeiting some de- 
gree of his esteem. Now, to one like me, who 
never cares for speaking anything else but non- 
sense, such a friend as you is an invaluable 
treasure. I was never a rogue, but h;ive been 
a fool all my life ; and, in spite of all my endea- 
vours, I see how plainly that I shall never be 
wise. Now it rejoices my heart to have met 
with such a fellow as you, who, thoagn you are 
not just such a hopeless fool as I, yet I trust 
you will never listen so much to the temptations 
of the devil as to grow so very wise that you 
will in the least disrespect an honest follow be- 
cause he is a fool. In short, I have set you down 
as the staif of my old age, when the whole list 
of my friends will, after a decent share of pity, 
have forgot me. 

Though in the morn comes sturt and strife. 
Yet joy may come at noon ; 

And I hope to live a merry, merry life 
When 4' thir days are done. 

Write me soon, were it but a few lines just to 
tell . me how that good sagacious man your 
father is — that kind dainty body your mother- 
that strapping chiel your brother Douglas — and 
my friend Rachel, who is as far before Rachel 
of old, as she was before her blear-eyed sister 
Leah. R. B 



LXXIII. 

TO ROBERT AINSLIE, ESQ. 

[The " savage hospitality,"of which Burns corap!-;* 
in this letter, was at that time an evil fashion iji Scotlaad ; 
the bottle was made to circulate rapidly, and every glasi 
was drunk "clean eaup out."] 

Mauchline, July, 1787. 
My dear Sut, 
My life, since I saw you last, has been one 
continued hurry ; that savage hospitality vrhiok 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



35k 



knocks a man down -with strong liquors, is the 
devil. I tave a sore ■warfare in this world ; the 
devil, the world, and the flesh are three formi- 
dable foes. The first I generally try to fly from ; 
the second, alas ! generally flies from me ; but 
the third is my plague, worse than the ten 
plagues of Egypt 

I have been looking over several farms in this 
country ; one in particular, in Nithsdale, pleased 
mt so well, that if my ofi"er to the proprietor is 
Rcniepted, I shall commence farmer at Whit- 
Sunday. If farming do not appear eligible, I 
shall have recourse to my other shift : but this 
to a friend. 

1 set out fo^ Edinburgh on Monday morning; 
how long I stay there is uncertain, but you will 
know so soon as I can inform you myself. How- 
ever I determine, poesy must be laid aside for 
some time; my mind has been vitiated with 
idleness, and it will take a good deal of effort 
to habituate it to the routine of business. 
I am, my dear Sir, 

Yours sincerely, 

R. B. 



TO DR. MOORE. 



[Dr. Moore yvas one of the first to point out thebeauty of 
the lyric compositions of Burns. " ' Green grow the 
Rashes,' and of the two songs," says he, " which follow, 
beginning ' Again rejoicing nature sees,' and ' The 
gloomy night is gathering fast;' the latter is exquisite. 
By the way, I imagine you have a peculiar talent for such 
compositions which you ought to indulge: no kind of 
poetry demands more delicacy or higher polishing." On 
this letter to Moore all the biographies of Burns are 
'ounded.] 



Sib, 



Mauchline, 2d August, 1787. 



For some mouths past I have been rambling 
over the country, but I am now confined with 
peme llnsering complaints, originating, as I take 
it, in the stomach. To divert my spirits a little 
In t5i_ 3 miserable fog of ennui, I have taken a 
whim to give you a history of myself. My name 
has made some little noise in this country ; you 
have done me the honour to interest yourself 
very warmly in my behalf ; and I think a faith- 
ful account of what character of a man I am, 
ftni how I came by that character, may perhaps 
*muse you in an idle moment. I will give you 
an honest narrative, though I know it will be 
often at my own expense ; for I assure you, Sir, 



I have, like Solomon, whose character, except 

ing in the trifling affair of wisdom, I sometimes 
think I resemble, — I have, I say, like him turned 
my eyes to behold madness and folly, and 
like him, too, frequently shaken hands with theil 
intoxicating friendship. — After you have pe- 
rused these pages, should you think them trifling 
and impertinent, I only beg leave to tell you, 
that the poor author wrote them under som« 
twitching qualms of conscience, arising from a 
suspicion that he was doing what he ought not 
to do ; a predicament he has more than once 
been in before. 

I have not the most distant pretensions to as- 
sume that character which the pye-coated guar- 
dians of escutcheons, call a gentleman. When 
at Edinburgh last winter, I got acquainted in 
the herald's ofiBce ; and, looking through that 
granary of honours, I there found almost everv 
name in the kingdom ; but for me, 
" My ancient but ignoble blood 
Has crept thro' scoundrels ever since the fljod." 
Pope. 

Gules, purpure, argent, &c., quite disowned me- 
My father was of the north of Scotland, the 
son of a farmer, and was thrown by early mis 
fortunes on the world at large ; where, afte? 
many years' wanderings and sojournings, he 
picked up a pretty large quantity of observa- 
tion and experience, to which I am indebted for 
most of my little pretensions to wisdom — I have 
met with few who understood men, their man- 
ners, and their ways, equal to him ; but stub- 
born, ungainly integrity, and headlong, ungo- 
vernable irascibility, are disqualifying circum- 
stances ; consequently, I was born a very poor 
man's son. For the first six or seven years of 
my life, my father was gardener to a worthy 
gentleman of small estate in the neighbourhood 
of Ayr. Had he continued in that station I 
must have marched off to be one of the little 
underlings about a farm-house ; but it was hia 
dearest wish and prayer to have it in his power 
to keep his children under his own eye, till they 
could discern between good and evil ; so, with 
the assistance of his generous master, my father 
ventured on a small farm on his estate. At 
those years, I was by no means a favourite 
with anybody. I was a good deal noted for a 
retentive memory, a stubborn sturdy something 
in my disposition, and an enthusiastic idiot 
piety. I say idiot piety, because 1 was then 

1 Idiot for idiotic. 



S52 



GENERAL COREESPONDJiJNOB 



b'jt a child. Though it 30st the schoolmaster 
gome thrashings, I made an excellent English 
Bcholar ; and by the time I was ten or eleven years 
of age, I was a critic in substantives, verbs, and 
particles. In my infant and boyish days, too, 
I owed much to an old woman who resided in 
the family, remarkable for her ignorance, cre- 
dulity, and superstition. She had, I suppose, 
the largest collection in the country of tales and 
songs concerning devils, ghosts, fairies, brow- 
E.ies, witches, warlocks, spunkies, kelpies, elf- 
candles, deadlights, wraiths, apparitions, can- 
traips, giants, enchanted towers, dragons, and 
ohher trumpery. This cultivated the latent 
Befds of poetry ; but had so strong an effect on 
my imagination, that to this hour, in my noc- 
turnal rambles, I sometimes keep a sharp look 
out in suspicious places ; and though nobody 
can be more sceptical than I am in such mat- 
ters, jet it often takes an effort of philosophy 
to shake off these idle terrors. The earliest 
composition that I recollect taking pleasure .in, 
was The Vision of Mirza, and a hymn of Addi- 
son's beginning, " How are thy servants blest, 
Lord !" I particularly remember one half- 
stanza which was music to my boyish ear — 
" For though in dreadful whirls we hung 
High on the broken wave — " 
T met with these pieces in Mason's English Col- 
lection, one of my school-books. The first two 
books I ever read in private, and which gave me 
more pleasure than any two books I ever read 
•ince, were The Life of Hannibal, and The Histo- 
ry of Sir William Wallace, liannibal gave my 
young ideas such a turn, that I used to strut in 
raptures up and down after the recruiting drum 
and bag-pipe, and wish myself tall enough to"** 
be a soldier; while the story of Wallace poured 
a Scottish prejudice into my veins, which will 
boil along there till the floodgates of life shut 
in eternal rest. 

Polemical divinity about this time was putting 
(he country half mad, and I, ambitious of shin- 
ing in conversation parties on Sundays, between 
sermons, at funerals, &c., used a few years after- 
wards to puzzle Calvinism with so much heat 
and indiscretion, that I raised a hue and cry of 
heresy against me, which has not ceased to this 
hour. 

My vicinity to Ayr was of some advantage to 
me. My social disposition, when not checked 
oy some modifications of spirited pride, was like 
•ur catechi.sn definition of infinitude, without 



bounds or limits. I formed several connexionfl 
with other younkers, who possessed superior ad- 
vantages ; the youngling actors who were busy 
in the rehearsal of parts, in which they were 
shortly to appear on the stage of life, where, 
alas! I was destined to drudge behind the 
scenes. It is not commonly at this green age, 
that our young gentry have a just sense of the 
immense distance between them and their ragged 
playfellows. It takes a few dashes into the 
world, to give the young great man that proper, 
decent, unnoticing disregard for the poor, insig- 
nificant stupid devils, the mechanics atid pea- 
santry around him, who were, perhaps, horn ia 
the same village. My young superiors never 
insulted the clouterly appearance of my plough 
boy carcase, the two extremes of which were 
often exposed to all the inclemencies of all the 
seasons. They would give me stray volumes of 
books ; among them, even then, I could pick up 
some observations, and one, whose heart, I am 
sure, not even the " Munny Begum" scenes have 
tainted, helped me to a little French. Parting 
with these my young friends and benefactors, aa 
they occasionally went off for the East or West 
Indies, was often to me a sore afiliction ; but I 
was soon called to more serious evils. My 
father's generous master died ! the farm proved 
a ruinous bargain ; and to clench the misfortune, 
we fell into the hands of a factor, who sat for 
the picture I have drawn of one in my tale of 
" The Twa Dogs." My father was advanced in 
life when he married ; I was the eldest of seven 
children, and he, worn out by early hardships, 
was unfit for labour. My father's spirit was 
soon irritated, but not easily broken. There 
was a freedom in his lease in two years more, 
and to weather these two years, we retrenched 
our expenses. We lived very poorly : I was a 
dexterous ploughman for my age ; and the -next 
eldest to me was a brother (Gilbert), who couU 
drive the plough very well, and help me to 
thrash the corn. A novel-writer might, perhaps, 
have viewed these scenes with some satisfac- 
tion, but so did not I ; my indignation yet boils 
at the recollection of the scoundrel factor's in- 
solent threatening letters, which used to set U8 
all in tears. 

This kind of life — the cheerless gloom of a 
hermit, with the unceasing moil of a galley- 
slave, brought me to my sixteenth year ; a little 
before which period I first committed the sin of 
rhyme. You know our country custoxa of cou 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



S7ia 



pling a man and woman together as partnei's in 
the labours of harvest. In my fifteenth autumn, 
my partner was a bewitching creature, a year 
younger than myself. My scarcity of English 
denies me the power of doing her justice in that 
language, but you know the Scottish idiom: she 
was a "bonnie, sweet, sonsie lass." In short, 
sh«, altogether unwittingly tc herself, initiated 
me in that delicious passion which, in spite of 
acid disappointment, gin-horse prudence, and 
bookworm philosophy, I hold to be the first of 
human joys, our dearest blessing here below! 
How she caught the contagion I cannot tell; 
/ou medical people talk much of infection from 
breathing the same air, the touch, &c.; but I 
never expressly said I loved her. — Indeed, I did 
not know myself why I liked so much to loiter 
behind with her, when returning in the evening 
from our labours ; why the tones of her voice 
made my heart-strings thrill ^ike an ^olian 
harp ; and particularly why my pulse beat such 
a furious ratan, when I looked and fingered over 
her little hand to pick out the cruel nettle-stings 
and thistles. An^ong her other love-inspiring 
qualities, she sung sweetly ; and it was her fa- 
vourite reel to vyhich I attempted giving an em- 
bodied vehicle in ryhme. I was not so presump- 
luous as to imagine that I could make verses 
like printed ones, composed by men who had 
Ureek and Latin ; but my girl sung a song 
which was said to be composed by a small coun- 
try laird's son, on one of his father's maids, 
frith whom he was in love ; and I saw no rea- 
son why I might not rhyme as well as he ; for 
excepting that he could smear sheep, and cast 
peats, his father living .in the moorlands, he had 
no more schoiar-craft than myself. 

Thus with me began love and poetry ; which 
at times have been my only, and till within the 
last twelve months, have been my highest en- 
joyment. My father struggled on till he reached 
die freedom in his lease, when he entered on a 
larger farm, about ten miles farther in the coun- 
try. The nature of the bargain he made was 
such as to throw a little ready money into his 
iiands at the commencement of his lease, other- 
wise the affair would have been impracticable. 
For four years we lived comfortably here, but a 
difference commencing between him and his 
landlord as to terms, after three years tossing 
and whirling in the vortex o'f litigation, my father 
was just saved from the horrors of a jail, by a 
consamption, which, after two years' promises, 



kindly stepped in, and carried him away, to 
where the wicked cease from troubling, and 
where the weary are at rest ! 

It is during the time that we lived on this farm 
that my little story is most eventful. I was, at 
the beginning of this period, perhaps, the most 
ungainly awkward boy in the parish — -no solitairt 
was less acquainted with the ways of the world. 
What I knew of ancient story was gathered 
from Salmon's and Guthrie's Geographic a' 
Grammars ; and the ideas I had formed of mo 
dern manners, of literatxire, and criticism, I got 
from the Spectator. These, with Pope's Works, 
some Plays of Shakspeare, TuU and Dickson on 
Agriculture, the Pantheon, Locke's Essay on 
the Human Understanding, Stackhouse's His 
tory of the Bible, Justice's British Gardener's 
Directory, Boyle's Lectures, Allan Ramsay's 
Works, Taylor's Scripture Doctrine of Original 
Sin, A Select Collection of English Songs, and 
Hervey's Meditations, had formed the whole of 
my reading. The collection of Songs was my 
vade mecum. I pored over them, driving my 
cart, or walking to labour, song by song, verse 
by verse ; carefully noting the true tender, or 
sublime, from affectation and fustian. I am con- 
vinced I owe to this practice much of my critic 
craft, such as it is. 

In my seventeenth year, to give my manners 
a brush, I went to a country dancing-school. 
My father had an unaccountable antipathj 
against these meetings, and my going was, what 
to this moment I repent, in 'opposition to hiR 
wishes. My father, as I said before, was sub- 
ject to strong passions ; from that instance of 
disobedience in me, he took a sort of dislike to 
me, which, I believe, was one cause of the dissi- 
pation which marked my succeeding je<i?:3. I 
say dissipation, comparatively wit.b the strkt.- 
ness, and sobriety, and regularity of Preshy 
terian country life ; for though the will-o'-wirp 
meteors of thoughtless whim were almost the sole 
lights of my path, yet early ingrained piety and 
virtue kept me for several years afterwaide 
within the line of innocence. The er'iat m\9.- 
fortune of my life was to want an aim. I hatf 
felt early some stirrings of ambition, but they 
were the blind gropings of Homer's Cyclops 
round the walls of his cave. I saw my father's 
situation entailed on me perpetual labour 
The only two openings by which I could ente: 
the temple of fortune were the gate of nig- 
gardly economy, or the path of little chican- 



351 



GENERAL CORIIESPONDENCE 



injr barg;a;n-making. The first is so contracted 
An aperture I never could squeeze myself into 
it- -the last I always hated — there was con- 
tamination in the very entrance ! Thus aban- 
doned of aim or view in life, with a strong 
appetite for sociability, as well from native 
hilarity as from a pride of observation and re- 
ojark ; a constitutional melancholy or hypochon- 
driasm that made me fly solitude ; add to these 
incentives to social life, my reputation for book- 
ish knowledge, a certain wild logical talent, 
and a strength of thought, something like the 
rudiments of good sense ; and it will not seem 
surprising that I was generally a welcome guest 
where I visited, or any great wonder that 
always, where two or three met together, there 
was I among them. But far beyond all other 
impulses of my heart, was un penchant d V adora- 
ble moitie du genre humain. My heart was com- 
pletely tinder, and was eternally lighted up by 
Bonie goddess or other ; and, as in every other 
warfare in this world, my fortune was various ; 
eometimes I was received with favour, and some- 
times 1 was mortified with a repulse. At the 
pl)ugh, scythe, or reap-hook, I feared no com- 
petitor, and thus I set absolute want at defiance; 
and as I never cared farther for my labours 
than while I was in actual exercise, I spent the 
eyenings in the way after my own heart. A 
country lad seldom carries on a love adventure 
without an assisting confidant. I possessed a 
curiosity, zeal, ajid intrepid dexterity that re- 
commended me as a proper second on these 
occasions; and I dare say, I felt as much plea- 
sure in being in the secret of half the loves of 
the parish of Tarbolton, as ever did statesman 
in knowing the intrigues of half the courts of 
Europe. The very goose-feather in my hand 
seems to know instinctively the well-worn path of 
my imagination, the favourite theme of my song ; 
and is with difficulty restrained from giving you 
» couple of paragraphs on the love-adventures 
iif my compeers, the humble inmates of the 
farm house and cottage ; but the grave sons of 
science, ambition, or avarice baptize these 
things by the name of follies. To the sons and 
laughters of labour and poverty they are mat- 
ters of the most serious nature : to them the 
(irdent hope, the stolen interview, the tender 
farewell, are the greatest and most delicious 
parts of their enjoyments. 

.ilnother circumstance in my life which made 
•trae alteration in my mind and inaQners, was. 



that I spent my nineteenth summer en a smuf ' 
gling coast, a good distance from home, at a 
noted school to learn mensuration, surveying;, 
dialling, &c., in which I made a pretty good 
progress. But I made a greater progress in 
the knowledge of mankind. The coutrabaiid 
trade was at that time very successful, and it 
sometimes happened to me to fall in with those 
who carried it on. Scenes of swaggc ring rio< 
and roaring dissipation were, till this time, lew 
to ine ; but I was no enemy to social life. Here, 
though I learnt to fill my glass, and to mis 
without fear in a drunken squabble, yet I went 
on with a high hand with my geometry, till the 
sun entered Virgo, a month which is always a 
carnival in my bosom, when a charming fiUette, • 
who lived next door to the school, overset my 
trigonometry, and set me off at a tangent from 
the spheres of my studies. I, however, struggled 
on with my sines and co-sines for a few days 
more ; but stepping into the garden one charm- 
ing noon to take the sun's altitude, there I met 
my angel, 

" Like Proserpine gathering flowers, 
Herself a fairer flower "1 

It was in vain to think of doing any more 
good at school. The remaining week I stayed I 
did nothing but craze the faculties of my soul 
about her, or steal cut to meet her ; and the 
two iast nights of my stay in the country, had 
sleep been a mortal sin, the image of this modest 
and innocent girl had kept me guiltless. 

I returned home very considerably improved. 
My reading was enlarged with the very import- 
ant addition of Thomson's and Shenstone'a 
works ; I had seen human nature in a new 
phasis ; and I engaged several of my schoolfel- 
lows to keep up a literary correspondence with 
me. This improved me in composition. .1 had 
met with a collection of letters by the wits cf 
Queen Anne's reign, and I pored over them 
most devoutly. I kept copies of any of my own 
letters that pleased me, and a comparison be- 
tween them and the composition of most of mj 
correspondents flattered my vanity. I carried 
this whim so far, that though I had not three- 
farthings' worth of business in the world, yet 
almost every post brought me as many letters 
as if I had been a broad plodding son of the 
day-book and ledger. 

My life flowed on rjuch in the same coorat 

» Para (line liost, b iw 



OP ROBERT BURNS. 



35£ 



till my twenty-third year. Vive Vamorir, et vive 
la bagatelle, were my sole principles of action. 
The addition of two more authors to my library 
gav^e me great pleasure; Sterne and Mackenzie 
— Tristram Shandy ind the Man of Feeling were 
aiy bosom favourites. Poesy was still a darling 
walk for my mind, but it was only indulged in 
according to the humour of the hour. I had 
oeually half s dozen or more pieces on hand ; I 
tojk up one or other, as it suited the momentary 
tone of the mind, and dismissed the work as it 
bordered on fatigue. My passions, when once 
lighted up raged like so many devils, till they 
got vent in rhyme ; and then the conning over 
my verses, like a spell, soothed all into quiet ! 
None of the rhymes of those days are in print, 
except " Winter, a dirge," the eldest of my 
printed pieces ; " The Death of poor Maillie," 
"John Barleycorn," and songs first, second, and 
third. Song second was the ebullition of that 
passion which ended the forementioned school- 
business. • 

My twenty-third year w^s to me an import- 
ant sera. Partly through whim, and partly 
that I wished to set about doing something in 
Life, I joined a flax-dresser in a neighbouring 
town (Irvine) to learn his trade. This was an 
unlucky affair. My * * * and to finish the 
whole, as we were giving a welcome carousal to 
the new yearj_ the shop took fire and burnt to 
ashes, and I was left, like a true poet, not worth 
a sixpence. 

( was obliged to give up this scheme ; the 
clouds of misfortune were gathering thick round 
my father's head ; and, what was worst of all, 
he was visibly far gone in a consumption ; and 
to crown my distresses, a belle fille, whom I 
adored, and who had pledged her soul to meet 
me in the field of matrimony, jilted me, with 
peculiar circumstances of mortification. The 
finishing evil that brought up the rear of this 
infernal file, was my constitutional melancholy 
being increased to such a degree, that for three 
months I was in a state of mind scarcely to be 
envied by the hopeless wretches who have got 
heir mittimus — depart from me, ye cursed! 

From this adventure I learned something of a 
town life ; but the principal thing which gave 
my mind a turn, was a friendship I formed wich 
% young feliow, a very noble character, but a 
kapless son of misfortune. He was the son of 
(. simple mechanic ; but a great man in the 
laighbourhcod taking him under his patronage, 



gave him a genteel education, with a /iew of 
bettering his situation in life. The patron 
dying just as he was ready to launch out into 
the world, the poor fellow in despair went tr 
sea ; where, after a variety of good and ill for- 
tune, a little before I was acqua'nted with iaini 
he had been set on shore by an American ^n-i 
vateer, on the wild coast of Connaught strip 
ped of everything. I cannot quit this poor fcl 
low's story without adding, that he is at this 
time master of a large West-Indiaman belonging 
to the Thames. 

His mind was fraught with independence, 
magnanimity, and every manly virtue. I loved 
and admired him to a degree of enthusiasm, and 
of course strove to imitate him. In some mea- 
sure I succeeded; I had pride before, but he 
taught it to flow in proper channels. His know- 
ledge of the world was vastly superior to mine, 
and I was all attention to learn. He was the 
only man I ever saw who was a greater fool than 
myself where woman was the presiding star ; 
but he spoke of illicit love with the levity of a 
sailor, which hitherto I had regarded with hor- 
ror. Here his friendship did me a mischief, and 
the consequence was, that soon after I resume*? 
the plough, I wrote the "Poet's Welcome."' 
My reading only increased while in this town 
by two stray volumes of Pamela, and one of 
Ferdinand Count Fathom, which gave me some 
idea of novels. Rhyme, except some religious 
pieces that are in print, I had given up ; but 
meeting with Fergusson's Scottish Poems, I 
strung anew my wildly-sounding lyre with emu-^ 
lating vigour. When my father died, his all 
went among the hell-hounds that growl in the 
kennel of justice ; but we made a shift to col- 
lect a little money in the family amongst us 
with which, to keep us together, my brother and 
1 took a neighbouring farm. My brother want 
ed my hair-brained imagination, as well as my 
social and amorous madness ; but in good sense 
and every sober qualification, he was far my ^m 
perior. 

I entered on this farm with a full resolution, 
"come, go to, I will be wise!" I read farming 
books, I calculated crops ; I attended markets ; 
and in short, in spite of the devil, and the world, 
and the flesh, I believe I should have been a 
wise man ; but the first year, from unfortunately 
buying bad seed, the second from a late har- 



1 " Rob the Rhymer's Welcome to his Bastard Chi'd 
—See Poem XXXIII. 



35G 



GENEKAL COl RESPONDENCE 



vest, we lost half our crops. This overset all 
my wisdom, and I returned, "like the dog to 
his -vomit, and the sow that was washed, to her 
wallowing in the mire." 

I now began to be known in the neighbourhood 
as a maker of rhymes. The first of my poetic 
offsijring that saw the Vght, was a burlesque la- 
toentation on a quarrel between two reverend 
Calvinists, both of them dramatis personce in 
♦' Holy Fair." I had a notion myself that 
the piece had some merit ; but, to prevent 
the worst, I gave a copy of it to a friend, 
who was very fond of such things, and told him 
that I could not guess who was the author of it, 
but that I thought it pretty clever. With a cer- 
tain description of the clergy, as well as laity, it 
met with a roar of applause. " Holy Willie's 
Prayer" next made its appearance, and alarmed 
the kirk-seasion so much, that they held several 
meetings to look over their spiritual artillery, if 
haply any of it might be pointed against pro- 
fane rhymers. Unluckily for me, my wander- 
ings led me on another side, within point-blank 
shot of their heaviest metal. This is the unfor- 
tunate story that gave rise to my printed poem, 
" The Lament." This was a most melancholy 
affair, which I cannot yet bear to reflect on, and 
had very nearly given me one or two of the 
pi'incipal qualifications for a place among those 
who have lost the chart, and mistaken the reck- 
oning of rationality. I ■ gave up my part of 
the farm to my brother ; in truth it was only 
nominally mine ; and made what little prepara- 
tion was in my power for Jamaica. But, before 
leaving my native country for ever, I resolved 
to publish my poems. I weighed my produc- 
tions as impartially as was in my power ; I 
thought they had merit; and .it was a deli- 
cious idea that I should be called a clever fellow^ 
even though it should never reach my ears — a 
poor negro-driver — or perhaps a victim to that 
inhospitable clime, and gone to the world of 
gpirits ! I can ti'uly say, t'hdLt pauvre inconnu as 
[ then was, I had pretty nearly as high an idea 
of myself and of my works as I have at this 
msment, when the public has decided in their 
favour. It ever was my opinion that the mis- 
takes and blunders, both in a rational and reli- 
gious point of view, of which we see thousands 
daily guilty, are owing to their ignorance of 
themselves. — To know myself had been all along 
my constant study. I weighed myself alone ; I 
Salanced myself with others ; I watched every 



means of information, to see how much groumJ 
I occupied as a man and as a poet ; I studied 
assiduously Nature's design in my formation— 
where the lights and shades in my character 
were intended. I was pretty confident my poems 
would meet with some applause ; but, at the 
worst, the roar of the Atlantic would deafen 
the voice of censure, and the novelty of West 
Indian scenes make me forget neglect. I thre-vt 
off six hundred copies, of which I had got sub- 
scriptions for about three hundred and fifty.— 
My vanity was highly gratified by the reception 
I met with from the public; and besides I 
pocketed, all expenses deducted, nearly twenty 
pounds. This sum came very seasonably, as I 
was thinking of indenting myself, for want. of 
money to procure my passage. As soon as I 
was master of nine guineas, the price of waft- 
ing me to the torrid zone, I took a steerage pas- 
sage in the first ship that was to sail from tha 
Clyde, for 

" Hungry ruin had ma in the wind." 

I had been for ^some days skulking from 
covert to covert, under all the terrors of a jail; 
as some ill-advised, people had uncoupled the 
merciless pack of the law at my heels. I had 
taken the last farewell of my few friends ; my 
chest was on the road to Greenock ; I had com- 
posed the last song I should ever measure in 
Caledonia — "The gloomy night is gathering 
fast," when a letter from Dr. Blacklock to a 
friend of mine, overthrew all my schemes, by 
opening new prospects to my poetic ambition. 
The doctor belonged to a set of critics for whose 
applause I had not dared to hope. His opinion, 
that I would meet with encouragement in 
Edinburgh for a second edition, fired me so 
much, that away I posted for that city, without 
a single acquaintance, or a single letter qf in- 
troduction. The baneful star that had so long 
shed its blasting influence in my zenith, for once 
made a revolution to the nadir; and a kin 3 
Providence placed me under the patronage 
»f one of the noblest of men, the Eai-l of Glen- 
cairn. Oublie-moi, grand Dieu, si jamais jt 
Voublie! 

I need relate no farther. At Edinburgh I 
was in a new world ; I mingled among many 
classes of men, but all of them new to me, and 
I was all attention to " catch" the characterj 
and "the manners living as they rise." Whe. 
ther I have profited, time will show. 

* * « * 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



3b. 



My most respectful compliments to Miss Wil- 
liamB. Her very elegant and friendly letter I 
eannr>t answer at present, as my presence is re- 
quisite in Edinburgh, and I set out to-morrow. 

E. B. 



LXXV. 
TC ROBERT AINSLIE, ESQ., 

BERRTWELL D U N S B. 

(This characteristic letter was first published by Sir 
Hariis Nicolas ; others, still more characteristic, ad- 
iressJsd to the same gentleman, are abroad: how they 
»scai)ed from private keeping is a sort of a riddle.] 

Edinburgh, 2?>d August, 1787. 

" As I gaed up to Dunse 
To warp a pickle yarn, 
Robin, silly body. 

He gat me wi' bairn." 

Feobi hencsforth, my dear Sir, I am deter- 
mined to set oif with my letters like the period- 
ical writers, viz. prefix a kind of text, quoted 
from some classic of undoubted authority, such 
as the author of the immortal piece, of which 
my text is a part. What I have to say on my 
text is exhausted in a letter which I wrote you 
the other day, before I had the pleasure of re- 
ceiving yours from Inverkeithing ; and sure 
. never was anything more lucky, as I have but 
the t'mii to write this, that Mr. Nicol, on the 
opposite side of the table, takes to correct a 
proof-sheet of a thesis. They are gabbling 
Latin so loud that I cannot hear what my own 
soul is saying in my own skull, so I must just 
give you a matter-of-fact sentence or two, and 
end, if time permit, with a verse de rei genera- 
tione. To-morrow I leave Edinburgh in a 
chaise ; Nicol thinks it more comfortable than 
horseback, to which I say. Amen ; so Jenny 
Geddos goes home to Ayrshire, to use a phrase 
»f ray mother's, wi' her finger in her mouth. 
Now fcr a modest verse of classical authority: 

The cats like kitchen ; 

The dogs like broo ; 
The lasses like the lads weel, 

And th' auld wives too. 

CHORUS. 

And we're a' noddin, 

Nid, nid, noddin, 
We re a' noddin fou at e'en. 



If this does not please you, let me hear from 
you ; if you write any time before the 1st of 
September, direct to Inverness, to be left at the 
post-office till called for; the next ■vre«k iX 
Aberdeen, the next at Edinburgh. 

The sheet is done, and I shall just conclude 
with assuring you that 

I am, and ever with pride shall be, 
My dear Sir, &c. 

R C. 

Call your boy what you think proper, onl;^ 
interject Burns. What do you say to a Scrip- 
ture name ? Zimri Burns Ainslie, or Archito* 
phel, &c., look your Bible for these two heroea. 
if you do this, I will repay the compliment 



TO MR. ROBERT MUIR. 

[No Scotsman will ever read, without emotion, th* 
poet's words in this letter, and in " Scots wha hae w< 
Wallace bled," about Bannockburn and its glories J 

Stirling, 2Gth August, 1787. 
My dear Sir, 
I INTENDED to have written you from Edin- 
burgh, and now write you from Stirling to mak«« 
an excuse. Here am I, on my way to Inver- 
ness, with a truly original, but very worthy 
man, a Mr. Nicol, one of the masters of the 
High-school, in Edinburgh. I left Auld Reekie 
yesterday morning, and have passed, besidea 
by-excursioi?l, Linlithgow, Borrowstouness, Fal- 
kirk, and here am I undoubtedly. This morn- 
ing I knelt at the tomb of Sir John the Graham, 
the gallant friend of the immortal Wallace ; 
and two hours ago I said a fervent prayer, 
for Old Caledonia, over the hole in x blue whin- 
stone, where Robert de Bruce fixed his royal 
standard on the banks of Bannockbux-n ; and just 
now, from Stirling Castle, I have seen by the 
setting sun the glorious prospect of the wmdmga 
of Forth through the rich carse of Stirling, and 
skirting the equally rich carse of Falkirk. Iha 
crops are very strong, but so very iate, that 
there is no harvest, except a ridge or two per- 
haps in ten miles, all the way I have travelU'f^ 
from Edinburgh. 

I left Andrew Brtice and family all well. 1 
will be at least three weeks in making my toui, 
as I shall return by the coast, and have mant 
people to call for. 



S58 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



My best compliments to Charles, our dear 
kinsman and fellow-saint ; and Messrs. W. and 
U. Parkers. I hope Hiighoc is going on and 
prospering with God and Miss M'Causlin. 

If I could think on anything sprightly, I should 
lot you hear every other post ; but a dull, mat- 
ter-of-fact business, like this scrawl, the less 
tmd seldomer one writes, the better. 

Among other matters-of-fact I shall add this, 
that I am and ever shall be, 
My dear Sir, 

Your obliged, 

R. B. 



TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. 

[It is supposed that the warmth of the lover came in 
this leLler to the aid of the imagination of the poet, in his 
iccount of Charlotte Hamilton.] 

Stirling, 28th August, 1787. 
Mt beak Sir, 
Hebe am I on my way to Inverness. I have 
rambled over the rich, fertile carses of Falkirk 
and Sterling, and am delighted with their ap- 
pearance : I'ichly waving crops of wheat, barley, 
lie, but no harvest at all yet, except, in one or 
two places, an old wife's ridge. .Yesterday 
morning I rode from this town up the meander- 
ing Devon's banks, to pay my respects to some 
Ayrshire folks at Harvieston. After breakfast, 
ffQ made a party to go and see the famous Cau- 
Jiou-linn, a remarkable cascade in the Devon, 
about five miles above Harvieston ; and after 
spending one of thfe most pleasant days I ever 
had in my life, I returned to Stirling in the 
evening. They are a family. Sir, though I had 
not had any prior tie ; though they had not 
been the brother and sisters of a certain gene- 
rous friend of mine, I would never forget them. 
I am told you have not seen them these several 
rears, so you can have very little idea of what 
Jbese young folks are now. Your brother is as 
tall as you are, but slender rather than other- 
wise , and I have the satisfaction to inform you 
'hat he is getting the better of those consump- 
•■ive syuiploms which I'^suppose you know were 
llireateniug him. His make, and particularly 
liis manner, resemble you, but he will still have 
a finer face. (I put in the word still to please 
Mrs. Hamilton.) Good sense, modesty, and at 
rJie sr.me time a just idea of that respect that 



man owes to man, and has a right ie Ms turn 
to exact, are striking features in bis charac 
ter ; and, what with me is the Alpha and th« 
Omega, he has a heart that might adorn the 
breast of a poet ! Grace has a good figure, and 
the look of health and cheerfulness, but no« 
thing else remarkable in her person, i scarcely 
ever saw so striking a likeness as is betvvcei, 
her and your little Beenie ; the mouth and chiu 
particularly. She is reserved at first ; but as 
we grew better acquainted, I was delighted with 
the native frankness of her manner, and the 
sterling sense of her observation. Of Charlotto 
I cannot speak in common terms of admiration : 
she is not only beautiful but lovely. Her form 
is elegant ; her features not regular, but they 
have the smile of sweetness and the settled 
complacency of good nature in the highest 
degree ; and her complexion, now that she haa 
happily recovered her wonted health, is equal 
to Miss Burnet's. After the exercise of out 
riding to the Falls, Charlotte was exactly Dr 
Donne's mistress: — 

" Her pure and eloquent blood 



Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought, 
That one would almost say her body thought." 

Her eyes are fascinating; at once expressi/e 
of good sense, tenderness, and a noble mind. 

I do not give you all this account, my good 
Sir, to flatter you. I mean it to reproach you. 
Such relations the fiirst peer in the realm might 
own with pride ; then why do you not keep up 
more correspondence with these so amiable 
young folks ? I had a thousand questions to 
answer about you. I had to describe the little 
ones with the minuteness of anatomy. They 
were highly delighted when I told them that 
John was so good a boy, and so fine a scholar, 
and that Willie was going on still very pretty ; 
but I have it in commission to tell her from 
them that beauty is a poor silly bauble withrut 
she be good. Miss Chalmers I had left in 
Edinburgh, but I had the pleasure of meeti.isJ 
Mrs. Chalmers, only Lady Mackenzie being 
rather a little alarmingly ill of a sore throat 
somewhat marred our enjoyment. 

I shall not be in Ayrshire for four wetka 
My most respectful compliments to Mrs. Ham- 
ilton, Miss Kennedy, and Doctor Mackenzie. 
I shall probably write him from some stage OT 
other. 

I am ever, Sir, 

Yours most gratefully, 

B. 3 



OF KOBERT BURNS. 



35^ 



LXXVIII. 
TO MR. WALKER, 

BLAIR OF ATHOLE. 

1 i^ofas&or Walker was a native of Ayrshire, and an 
iseoinplishiid scholar; he saw Burns often in Edinburgh; 
he eaw him at the Earl of Athol's on the Bruar : he visited 
bino :;oo a' Dumfries; and after the copyright of Carrie's 
idition •> iie poet's works expired, he wrote, with much 
taat* «&J f&sCIng, his life anew, and edited his works — 
wKai paisued u'^der his own observation he related with 
nit SK^ ease.l 

Inverness, 5th September, 1787. 
My dear Sir, 

I HAVE just time to write the foregoing,' and 
to tell you that it was (at least most part of it) 
the effusion of an half-hour I spent at Bruar. 
I do not mean it was extempore, for I have 
endeavoured to brush it up as well as Mr. 
Nicol's chat and the jogging of the chaise would 
allow, it eases my heart a good deal, as 
rhyme is thp coin with which a poet pays his 
debts of honour or gratitude. What I owe to 
the noble family of Athol, of the firast kind, 
I shall ever proudly boast ; what I owe of the 
last, so help me God in my hour of need ! I 
shall never forget. 

The "little angel-band !" I declare I prayed 
for them very sincerely to-day at the Fall of 
Fyers. I shall never forget the fine family- 
piece I saw at Blair; the amiable, the truly 
noble duchess, with her smiling little seraph in 
her lap, at the head of the table ; the lovely 
'< olive plants," as the Hebrew bard finely sayS) 
round the happy mother : the beautiful Mrs. 
G- — ; the lovely sweet Miss C, &c. I wish I 
had the powers of Guido to do them justice ! 
My Lord Duke's kind hospitality — markedly 
kiiid indeed. Mr. Graham of Fintray's charms 
of conversation — Sir W. Murray's friendship. 
In short, the recollection of all that polite, 
agreeable company raises an honest glow, in my 
bosom. 



TO MR. GILBERT BURNS. 

[Th* letters of Robert to Gilbert are neither many nor 
•nportant : the latter was a calm, considerate, sensible 
nan, with nothing poetic in his composition : he died 
•tely, mu3li and vviiely respected.] 



> The Humble Petition of Bruar- water 



Edinburgh, 17 th September, 1787 
My dear Brother, 

I ARRIVED here safe yesterday evening, aftej 
a tour of twenty-two days, and travelling neaJ 
six hundred miles, windings included. My 
farthest stretch was about ten miles beyond 
Inverness. I went through the heai't of tL« 
Highlands by Crieflr, Taymouth, the famous seal 
of Lord Breadalbane, down the Tay, among 
cascades and druidical circles of stones, to 
Dunkeld, a seat of the Duke of Athol theuce 
across the Tay, and up one of his t.-ibutary 
streams to Blair of Athole, another of the 
duke's seats, where I had the honour of spend- 
ing nearly two days with his grace and family ; 
thence many miles through a wild country, 
among cliffs gray with eternal snows and gloomy 
savage glens, till I crossed Spey and went down 
the stream through Strathspey, so famous in 
Scottish music ; Badenoch, &c., till I reached 
Grant,, Castle, where I spent half a day with 
Sir James Grant and family ; and then crossed 
the country for Fort George, but called by the 
way at Cawdor, the ancient seat of Macbeth , 
there I saw the identical bed, in which tradition 
says king Duncan was murdered : lastly, from 
Fort George to Inverness. 

I returned by the coast, through Nairn, F jrres, 
and so on, to Aberdeen, thence to Stonehive, 
where James Burness, from Montrose, met me 
by appointment. I spent two days among our 
relations, and found our aunts, Jean and Isabel, 
still alive, and hale old women. John Cairn, 
though born the same year with our father, 
walks as vigorously as I can : they have had 
several letters from his son in New York. Wil- 
liam Brand is likewise a stout old fellow ; but 
further particulars I delay till I see you, which 
will be in two or three weeks. The rest of my 
stages are not worth rehearsing • warm as I 
was from Ossian's countrj'-, where I had seen 
his very grave, what cared I for fishing-towaa 
or fertile carses ? I slept at the famous Brodi« 
of Brodie's one night, and dined at Gordon Cas- 
tle next day, with the duke, iucuess and fami- 
ly. I am thinking to cause my old mare to meet 
me, by means of John Ronald, at Glasgow ; but 
you shall hear farther from me before I leave 
Edinburgh. My duty and many compliments 
from the north to my mother ; and my brotherly 
compliments to the rest. I have been trying fol 
a berth for William, but am not likely to be sue 
cessful. Farewell. R. B 



S60 



GENEKAL CORRESPONDENCE 



LXXX. 

rC iflloS MARGARET CHALMERS. 

(now MRS. HAY.) 
[To Margaret Chalmsvs, the youngest daughter of 
lumes Ctalmers, Esq., of Fingland, it is said that Burns 
eonfitted his affeotion to Charlotte Hamilton: his letters 
to Mtss Chalmers, like those to Mrs. Dunlop, are dis- 
■lioguislied for their good sense and delicacy as well as 
fr*8dom 

Sept. 26, 1787. 

I S5ND Charlotte the first number of the 
eongs ; I would not wait for the second number ; 
- flate delays in little marks of friendship, as I 
aate dissimulation in the language of the heart. 
I am determined to pay Charlotte a poetic com- 
. pliment, if I could hit on some glorious old 
Scotch air, in number second.' You will see a 
small attempt on a shred of paper in the book : 
but though 'Dr. Blacklock commended it very 
highlj'^, I am not just satisfied with it my*elf. I 
intend to make it a description of some kind : 
the whining cant of love, except in real pas- 
sion, and by a masterly hand, is to me. as insuf- 
ferable as the preaching cant of old Father 
Smeaton, whig-minister at Kilmaurs. Darts, 
flames, cupids, loves, graces, and all that far- 
rago, are just a Mauchline * * * * a senseless 
rabble. 

I got an excellent poetic epistle yesternight 
from the old, venerable author of " Tullochgo- 
rum," " John of Badenyon," &c. I suppose you 
know he is a clergyman. It is by far the finest 
poetic compliment I ever got. I will send you 
a copj of it. 

I go on Thursday or Friday to Dumfries, to 
wait on Mr. Miller about his farms. — Do tell 
that to Lady Mackenzie, that she may give me 
credit for a little wisdom. "I Wisdom dwell 
with Prudence." What a blessed fire-side! 
How happy should I be to pass a winter evening 
ander their venerable roof! and smoke a pipe 
cf tobacco, or drink water-gruel with them ! 
What solemn, lengthened, laughter-quashing 
gravity of phiz ! What sage remarks on the 
good-for-nothing sons and daughters of indis- 
cretion and folly ! And what frugal lessons, as 
we straitened the fire-side circle, on the uses of 
the poker and tongs ! 

Miss N. is very well, and begs to be remem- 
bered in the old way to you. I used all my elo- 
\ufince, all the persuasive flourishes of the 



Of tne Scots Musical Museum 



hand, and heart-melting modulation of perioda 
in my power, to urge her out to Harvieston, hui 
all in vain. My rhetoric seems quite to have lost 
its efi'ect on the lovely half of mankind. I hav* 
seen the day — but that is a " tale of other years.*'' 
— In my conscience I believe that my heart has 
been so oft on fire that it is absolutely viti'ified. 
I look on the sex with something like the aiaai- 
ration with which I regard the starry sky in a 
frosty December night. I adn.ire the beauty 
of the Creator's workmanship ; I am charmed 
with the wild but graceful eccentricity of their 
motions, and — wish them good night. I mean 
this with respect to a certain passion dont fat 
eu Vhonneur d'etre un miserable esclave : as for 
friendship, you and Charlotte have given me 
pleasure, permanent pleasure, " which the world 
cannot give, nor take away," I hope ; and which 
will outlast the heavens and the earth 

R. B 



LXXXI. 

TO MISS MARGARET CHALMERS. 

[That fine song, " The Banks of the Devon," dedicated 
to the charms of Charlotte Hamilton, was enclosed jn the 
following letter 

Without date. 

I HAVE been at Dumfries, and at one visit more 
shall be decided about a farm in that country. 
I am rather hopeless in it ; but as my brother 
is an excellent farmer, and is, besides, an ex- 
ceedingly prudent, sober man (qualities which 
are only a younger brother's fortune in our 
family), I am determined, if my Dumfries bu- 
siness fail me, to return, into partnership with 
him, and at our leisure take another farm in the 
neighbourhood. 

I assure you I look for high compliments from 
you and Charlotte on this vei'y sage instance of 
my unfathomable, incomprehensible wisdom. 
Talking of Charlotte, I must tell her that I have, 
to the best of my power, paid her a poetic com- 
pliment, now completed. The air is admirable : 
true old Highland. It was the tune of a Gaelic 
song, which an Inverness lady sung me when I 
was there ; and I was so charmed with it that 1 
begged her to write me a set of it from her sing- 
ing ; for it had never been set before. I am 
fixed that it shall go in Johnson's next number ; 
so Charlotte and you need not spend your pre- 
cious time in contradicting me. I won't say tha 
poetry is first-rate ; though I am convinced it i» 



OF EGBERT BURNS. 



361 



rery well ; and, -what is not always the case with 
Bompliments to ladies, it is not only sincere, 
hut just. B. B. 



LXXXII. 
TO JAMES HOY, ESQ. 

GORDON CASTLE. 

(James' Hoy, librarian of Gordon Castle, was, it is 
»&id, the gentleman whom his grace of Gordon sent with 
a message inviting in vain tliat "obstinate son of Latin 
prose," Nicol, to stop and enjoy himself.] 



SlE, 



Edinburgh, 20th October, 1787. 



I WILL defend my conduct in giving you this 
trouMe, on the best of Christian principles — 
'< Whatsoever ye would that men should do unto 
you, do ye even so unto them." — I shall cer- 
tainly, among my legacies, leave my latest curse 
to that unlucky predicament which hurried- 
tore me away from Castle Gordon. May that 
obstinate son of Latin prose [Nicol] be] curst to 
Scotch mile periods, and damned to seven league 
paragraphs; while Declension and Cp^njugation, 
Gender, Number, and Time, under the ragged 
banners of Dissonance and Disarrangement, eter- 
nally rank against him in hostile array. 

Allow me. Sir, to strengthen the small claim I 
have to your acquaintance, by the following re- 
quest. An engraver, James Johnson, in Edin- 
burgh, has, not from mercenary views, but from 
an honest, Scotch enthusiasm, set about collect- 
ing all our native songs and setting them to 
music; particularly those that have never been 
Bet before. Clarke, the well known musician, 
presides over the musical arrangement, and Drs. 
Beattie and Blacklock, Mr. Tytler, of Wood- 
houselee, and your humble servant to the utmost 
of his small power, assist in collecting the old 
poetry, or sometimes for a fine air make a stanza, 
*»hen it has no words. The brats, too tedious 
to —lention, claim a parental pang from my bard- 
ifejp. I suj ; ose it will appear in Johnson's se- 
sond nvmbei - the first was published before my 
AcquainLance with him. My request is — •'^' Cauld 
Kail in Aberdeen," is one intended for this 
number, and I beg a copy of his Gl-ace of Gor- 
don's words to it, which you were so kind as to 
repeat to me. Ton may be sure we won't pre- 
fix the author's name, except you like, though I 
look on it as no small merit to this work that the 
names of many of the authors of our old Scotch 
tongs, names almos<^. forgotten, will be inserted.* 



I do not well know where to write to you — 1 
rather write at you ; but if you will be so oblig- 
ing, immediately on receipt of this, as to write 
me a few lines, I shall perhaps pay you Id kind, 
though not in quality. Johnson's t«rms are : — ■ 
each number a handsome pocket volume, to cod- 
sist at least of a hundred Scotch aongs, with 
basses for the harpsichord, &c. The price to 
subscribers 5s. ; to non-subscribers 6s. He will 
have three numbers I conjecture. 

My direction for two or three weeks will be at 
Mr. William Cruikshank's, St. James's-square, 
New-town, Edinburgh. 

I am. 

Sir, 
Your's to command, 

R. B. 



LXXXIII. 

TO REV. JOHN SKINNER. 

[The songs of " Tullochgorum," and " John of Baden- 
yon,'' have made the name of Skinner dear to all lovers 
of Scottish verse : he v/as a man cheerful and pious, nol 
did the family talent expire with him : his son became 
Bishop of Aberdeen.] 

Edinburgh, October 25, 1787. 
Reverend and Venerable Sir, 

Accept, in plain dull prose, my most sincere 
thanks for the best poetical compliment I ever 
received. I assure you. Sir, as a poet, you 
have conjured up an airy demon of vanity in 
my fancy, which the best abilities in your other 
capacity would be ill able to lay. I regret, and 
while I live I shall regret, that when I was in 
the north, I had not the pleasure of paying a 
younger brother's dutiful respect to the author 
of the best Scotch song ever Scotland saw— 
** Tullochgorum's my delight!"- The world may 
think slightingly of the craft of song-making, 
if they please, but, as Job says — " Oh ! that 
mine adversary had written a book !" — let them 
try. There is a certain something in the old 
Scotch songs, a wild happiness of thought and ex- 
pression, which peculiarly marks them, not only 
from English songs, but alsD from the modern 
eiforts of song-wrights in our native manner and 
language. The only remains of this enchantmen<v 
these spells of the imagination, rests with you. 
Our true brothei Ross of Lochlee, was like- 
wise " owre cannie" — a "wild warloek"- 
but now he sings among the " sons of the morn- 
ing." 

I have often wished, and will certainly ende» 



I 



862 



(JENEEAL CORRESPONDENCE 



ionr to form a kind of common acquaintance 
among all tlio genuine sons of Caledonian song. 
Tlie world, busy in low pros.iic pursuits, may 
overlook most of us; but "reverence thyself." 
The world is not our peers, so we challenge the 
jury. We can lash that world, and find our- 
selves a very great source of amusement and 
happiness independent of that world. 

There is a work going on in Edinburgh, just 
now, which claims your best assistance, An 
engraver in this town has set about collecting 
and publirhing all the Scotch songs, with the 
music, that can be found. Songs in the English 
language, if by Scotchmen, are admitted, but 
the muaif, must all be Scotch. Drs. Beattie and 
Blacklo'.k are lending a hand, and the first mu- 
sician .n town presides over that department. 
I ha' i jeen absolutely crazed about it, collect- 
ing o'i stanzas, and every information respect- 
ing i.heir origin, authors, &c. &c. This last is 
bv . a very fragment business ; but at the end of 
his second number — the first is already published 
— a small account will be given of the authors, 
particularly to preserve those of latter times. 
Your three songs, " TuUochgorum," "John of 
Badenyon," and "Ewie wi' the crookit horn," 
00 in this second number. I was determined, 
before I got your letter, to write you, begging 
that 3'ou would let me know where the editions 
of these pieces may be found, as you would wish 
them to continue in future times : and if you 
would be so kind to this undertaking as send 
any songs, of your own or others, that you would 
think proper to publish, your name will be in- 
serted among the other authors, — "Nill ye, will 
ye." One half of Scotland already give your 
Wings to other authors. Paper is done. I beg 
to hear from you ; the sooner the better, as I 
leave Edinburgh in a fortnight or three weeks. — 
\ am, 

With the warmest sincerity, Sir, 

Your obliged humble servant, — E.. B. 



LXXXIV. 

TO JAMES HOY, ESQ. 

AT GOKDON CASTLE, FOCHABEKS. 

[1)1 singleness of heart and simplicity of manners James 
Hoy is said, by one who kn<'^«r liim well, to have rivalled 
Pominie Sampson : his love of learning and his ficorn of 
v«a.th i^re still remeia:;ered to his houour.] 



Edinburgh, &i\h Novtmltr, i.787 
Dear Sib,, 

I WOULD have wrote you immediately on re- 
ceipt of your kind letter, i:ut a mixed imp\ils« 
of gratitude and esteem t hispered me that 1 
ought to send you something by way ol retuiu 
When a poet owes anything, particularly -ffhea 
he is indebted for good offices, the payment tha- 
usually recurs to him — the only coin indeed ia 
which he probably is conversant — is rhyme. 
Johnson sends the books by the fly, as directed, 
and begs me to enclose his most grateful thanks ; 
my return I intended should have been one or 
two poetic bagatelles which the world have not 
seen, or, perhaps, for obvious reasons, cannot 
see. These I shall send you before I leave 
Edinburgh. They may make you laugh a little, 
which, on the whole, is no bad way of spending 
one's precious hours and still more precious 
breath : at any rate, they will be, though a 
small, yet a very sincere mark of my respectful 
esteem for a- gentleman whose further ac;iaaint 
ance I should look upon as a peculiar obliga- 
tion. 

The duke's song, independent totally of his 
dukeship, charms me. There is I know not 
what of wild happiness of thought and expres- 
sion peculiarly bea.utiful in the old Scottish song 
style, of which his Grace, old venerable Skinner, 
the author of " Tullochgorum," &c., and the late 
Boss, at Lochlee, of true Scottish poetic memory, 
are the only modern instances that I recollect, 
since Ramsay with his contemporaries, and poor 
Brb Fergusson, went to the world of deathless 
existence and truly immortal song. The mob 
of mankind, that many-headed beast, would 
laugh at so serious a speech about an old song, 
but as Job says, "0 that mine adversary had 
written i book !" Those who think that com- 
posing a Scotch song is a trifling business — :let 
them try. 

I wish my Lord Duke would pay a proper at- 
tention to the Christian admonition — " Hide not 
your candle under a bushel," but "let your 
light shine before men." I could name half a 
dozen dukes that I guess are a devilish deal 
worse employed : nay, I question if, there are 
half a dozen better : perhaps there are not hall 
that scanty number whom Heaven has favoured 
with t le tuneful, happy, and, I will say, glorioui 
gift. 

I £.m, dear Sir, 
Yoiir obliged humble servant, 

R.B. 



OE ROiiEIlT BURNS- 



36c 



LXX XV. 

TG MR. ROBERT AINSLIE, 

iniNBUROiH. 

I ■ I B»t you clown," says Burns, elsewhere, to Ainslie, 
"i« tie aiaffof my old age, when ai\ my other friends, 
«fle/ a decer.'. show of pity, will iave /orgot me."] 

Edinburgh, Sunday Morning, 
Nov. 28, 17)1.7. 

I BEG,- my dear Sir, you would not make any 
appointment to take us to Mr. Ainslie's *o-night. 
On looking over my engagements, const' tution, 
present state of my health, some little vex!.'tious 
Boul concerns, &c., I find I can't sup abroad to- 
night. I shall be in to-day till one o'clock if 
you have a leisure hour. 

You will think it romantic when I tell you, 
that T find the idea of your friendship almost 
necessary to my existence. — You assume a pro- 
per length of face in my bitter hours of blue- 
devilism, and you laugh fully up to my highest 
wishes at my good things. — I don't know upon 
the whole, if you are one of the first fellows in 
God's world, but you are so to me. I tell you 
this just now in the conviction that some in- 
equalities in my temper and manner may per- 
haps sometimes make you suspect that I am not 
BO warmly ais I ought to be your friend. 

R. B. 



LXXXVI. 



TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN. 



[The views of Burns vv^ere always humble : he regarded 
a p'.ace in the excise as a thing worthy of paying court 
for, both in verse and prose.] 

Edinburgh, 178T. 
My Lord, 
f KNOW your lordship will disapprove of my 
Ideas in a request I am going to make to you ; 
but I have weighed, long and seriously weighed, 
my situation, my hopes and turn of mind, and 
*B. fully fixed to my scheme if I can possibly 
etfectuate it I wish to get into the Excise ; I 
am told that your lordship's interest will easily 
procure me the grant from the commissioners ; 
and your lordship's patronage und goodness, 
which have already rescued me from obscurity, 
wretchedness, and exile, embolden me to ask 
that interest. You have likewise put it in my 
power to save the little tie of home that shel- 
tered an aged mother, two brothers, and three 



sisters from destruction. There, my lord, yo< 
have bound me over to the highest gratitude. 

My brother's farm is but a wretched lease, 
but I think he will probably weather out the re- 
maining seven years of it ; and after the assist- 
ance which I have given and will give him, ta 
keep the family together, I think, by my guess, 
I shall have rather better than two hundfed 
pounds, and instead of seeking, -nliat is almost 
impossible at present to find, a farm that I can 
certainly live by, with so small a stock, I shall 
lodge this sum in a banking-house, a sacred de- 
posit, expecting only the calls of uncommon 
distress or necessitous old age. ' 

These, my lord, are my views : I have rec^olved 
from the maturest deliberation ; and now I am 
fixed, I shall leave no stone unturned to carry 
my resolve into execution. Your lordship's pa- 
tronage is the strength of my hopes ; nor have 
I yet applied to anybody else. Indeed my 
heart sinks within me at the idea of applying 
to ary other of the gi-eat who have honoured 
me with their countenance. I am ill qualified 
to dog the heels of greatness with the imperti- 
nence of solicitation, and tremble nearly aa 
much at the thought of the cold promise aa 
the cold denial ; but to your lordship I have 
not only the i:onour, the comfort, but the plea- 
sure of being 

Your lorlship's much obliged 

And deeply indebted humble servant, 
R. B 



LXXXVII. 
TO JAMES DALRYMPLE, ESQ 

OEANGEFIELD. 

[James Dalrymple, Esq., of Orangefield, was a gentia 
man of birth and poetic tastes — he intereBted himself ii 
the fortunes of Burns.] 

Edinburgh, 1787. 
Deae Sir, 
I SUPPOSE the devil is so elated with his sua- 
cess with you that he is determined by a coup 
de main to complete his purposes on you all at 
once, in making you a poet. I broke open the 
letter you sent me ; hummed over the rhymes 
and, as I saw they were extempore, said to my- 
self, they were very well ; but when I saw «,t 
the bottom a name that I shall ever valne with 
I grateful respect, "I.gagit wid(, but naething 
1 spak." 1 was nearly as much struck as iht 



564 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



friends of Job, of affliction-bearing memory, 
when they sat down with him seven days and 
seven niglits, and spake not a word. 

I am naturally of a superstitious cast, and 
as soon as my wonder-scared imagination re- 
gained its consciousness, and resumed its func- 
tions, T cast about what this mania of yours 
might portend. My foreboding ideas had the 
wide stretch of possibility ; and several events, 
great in their magnitude, and important in their 
consequences, occurred to my fancy. The 
downfall of the conclave, or the crushing of the 
Cork rumps ; a ducal coronet to Lord George 
Gordon and the Protestant interest; or St. 
Peter's keys to ***** *. 

You want to know how I come on. I am just 
in statu quo, or, not to insult a gentleman with my 
Latin, in " auld use and wont." The noble 
Earl of Glencairn took me by the hand to-day, 
and interested himself in my concerns, with a 
goodness like that benevolent Being, whose 
image he so richly bears. He is a stranger 
proof of the immortality of the soul, than any 
that philosophy ever produced. A mind like 
his can never die. Let the worshipful squire 
H. L., or the reverend Mass J. M. go into their 
primitive nothing. At best, they are but ill- 
digested lumps of chaos, only one of them 
Btrongly tinged with bituminous particles and 
sulphureous efHuvia. But my noble patron, 
eternal as the heroic swell of magnanimity, and 
the generous throb of benevolence, shall look 
on with princely eye at "the war of elements, 
the wreck of matter, and the cru,sh of worlds." 

R. B. 



LXXXVIII. 
rO CHARLES HAY, ESQ., 

ADVOCATE. 

Tho verses enclosed were written on the death of the 
Uird President Dundas, at the suggestion of Charles Hay, 
E»q., advo-.ate, afterwards a judge, under the title of 
tiord Newton. J 

Sir, 
The enclosed poem was written in consequence 
of your suggestion, last time I had the pleasure 
.>f seeing you. It cost me an hour or two of 
next morning's sleep, but did not please me ; so 
U lay by, an ill-digested effort, till the other 
4ay that I gave it a critic brush. These kind 
f subjects are much hackneyed ; and, besides, 



the wailings of the rhyming tribe over the ashei 
of the great are cursedly suspicious, and out of 
all character for sincei'ity. These ideas damped 
my muse's fire ; however, I have done the besi 
I could, and, at all events, it gives me au oppor- 
tunity of declaring that I have the honour tO 
be, Sir, your obliged humble servant, 

S. B. 



LXXXIX. 

TO MISS M N. 

[This letter appeared for the first time in tlie " Letteri 
to Clarinda," a little work which was speedily swy- 
pressed — it is, on the whole, a sort of Corydon and Phii- 
lis affair, with here and tliere expresaions too graphic, and 
passages over- warm. Who the lady was is not known — 
or known only to one.] 

Saturday Noon, No. 2, St. James's Square, 
New Town, Edinburgh. 

Here have I sat, my dear Madam, in the 
stony altitude of perplexed study for fifteen vex- 
atious minutes, my head askew, bending over 
the intended card ; my fixed eye insensible to 
the very light of day poured around ; my pendu- 
lous goose-feather, loaded with*ink, hanging 
over the future letter, all for the important pur- 
pose of writing a complimentary card to accom- 
pany your trinket. 

Compliment is such a miserable Greenland ex 
pression, lies at such a chilly polar distance 
from the torrid zone of my constitution, that I 
cannot, for the very soul of me, use it to any 
person for whom I have the twentieth part of 
the esteem every one must have for you wh» 
knows you. 

As I leave town in three or four days, I can 
give myself the pleasure of calling on you only 
for a minute. Tuesday evening, some time 
about seven or after, I shall wait on you for 
your farewell commands. 

The hinge of your box I put into the handa 
of the proper connoisseur. The broken glasa, 
likewise, went under review; but deliberatiTS 
wisdom thought it would too much endanger thi 
whole fabric. 

I am, dear Madam, 

With all sincerity of enthusiasm, 

Your very obedient servant, 

R. B 



OF ROBERT BURXS. 



365 



xc. 

TO MISS CHALMERS. 

{Some dozen or so, it 's said, of the most beautiful 
.'etters that Bci-ns ever wi 3te, and dedicated to the beauty 
»f Charhtte Hamilton, were destroyed by that lady, in a 
nBomenf when angrer was too strong for reflection.] 

Edinburgh, Nov. 21, 1787. 

1 HAVE one vexatious fault to the kindly--wel- 
Bome, Avell-fiUed sheet which I owe to your and 
Charlotte's goodness, — it contains too much 
sense, sentiment, and good-spelling. It is im- 
possible that even you two, whom I declare to 
my God I will give credit for any degree of ex- 
cellence the sex are capable of attaining, it is 
impossible you can go on to correspond at that 
rate ; so like those who, Shenstone says, retire 
because they make a good speech, I shall, after 
a few letters, hear no more of you. I insist 
th tt you shall write whatever comes first: what 
you see, what you read, what you hear, what 
you admire, what you dislike, trifles, bagatelles, 
nonsense ; or to fill up a corner, e'en put down 
a laugh at full length. Now none of your polite 
hints about flattery ; I leave that to your lovers, 
if you have or shall have any ; though, thank 
heaven, I have found at last two girls who can 
be luxuriantly happy in their own minds and 
with one another, without that commonly neces- 
Bary appendage to female bliss — a lover. 

Charlotte and you are just two favourite rest- 
ing-places for my soul in her wanderings through 
the weary, thorny wilderness of this world. 
(.jod knows I am ill-fitted for the struggle : I 
glory in being a Poet, and I want to be thought 

wise man — I would fondly be generous, and 
i wish to be rich. After all, I am afraid I am 
R lost subject. " Some folk hae a hantle o' 
fauts, an' I'm but a ne'er-do-weel." 

Afternoon — To close the melancholy reflec- 
tJons at the end of last sheet, I shall just add 
ft piece of devotion commonly known in Cari.ck 
by the title of the " Wabster's grace :" — 

" Some Bay we're thieves, and e'en sae are we, 
Some say we lie, and e'en sae do we ! 
Gude forgie us, and I hope sae wil. he ! 

Up and to your looms, lads." 

R. B. 



XCI. 
TO MISS CHALMERS. 



{The " Oc^.9l-Hills," which the poet promises in this 
«tt«r, is a song, beginning, 



" Where braving angry winter's storms 
The lofty Ochels rise," 
written in honour of Margaret Chalmers, and publishes 
along with the '' Banks of the Devon," in Johnson's Mu 
sical Museum, 

Edinburgh, Dec. 12, 1787. 

I AM here under the care of a surgeon, with 
a bruised limb extended on a cushion ; and tfct 
tints of my mind vying with the livid horros 
preceding a midnight thunder-storm. A drunk- 
en coachman was the cause, of the first, and 
incomparably the lightest evil ; misfortune, bo- 
dily constitution, hell, and myself have formed 
a " quadruple alliance" to guaranty the other. 
I got my fall on Saturday, and am getting 
slowly better. 

I have taken tooth and nail to the Bible, and 
am got through the five books of Moses, and 
half way in Joshua. It is really a glorious 
book. I sent for my bookbinder to-day, and 
ordered him to get me an octavo^Bible in sheets, 
the best paper and print in town; and bind, it 
with all the elegance of his craft. 

I would give my best song to my worst enemy, 
I mean the merit of making it, to have you and 
Charlotte by me. You are angelic creatures, 
and would pour oil and wine into my wounded 
spirit. 

I enclose you a proof copy of the " Banks of 
the Devon," which present with my best wishes 
to Charlotte. The " Ochel- hills" you shall pro- 
bably have next week for yourself. None of 
your fine speeches ; R. B. 



XCII. 
TO MISS CHALMERS. 



[The eloquent h^'pochondriasm of the concluding fsiM- 
graph of this letter, called forth the commendation of 
Lord JetTrey, when he criticised Croraek's R^.iqua" of 
Burns, in the Edinburgh Review.] 

Edinburgh, Dec. 19, HS?. 
I BEGIN this letter in answer to yours of ilis 
17th current, which is not yet cold since I load 
it. The atmosphere of my soul is vastly ilearer 
than when I wrote you last. For iae first time, 
yesterday I crossed the room on crutches. It 
■would do your heart good to see my hardship, 
not on my poetic, but on my osiren stilts; 
throwing my best leg with an air ! sad with as 
much hilarity in my gait and countenance, as a 
May frog leaping across the newly harrowed 



166 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



riJge, enjoying the fragrance of the refreshed- 
earth, after the long-expected shower ! 

I can't say 1 am altogether at my ease when 
I see anywhere in my path that meagre, squalid, 
famine-faced spectre, Poverty ; attended as he 
always is, by iron-fisted oppression, and leering 
contempt; but I have sturdily withstood his 
buffotings many a hard-laboured day already, 
*nd still my motto is — I dare ! My worst enemy 
f£ moi-mSme. I lie so miserably open to the in- 
roads and incursions of o. mischievous, light- 
armed, well-mounted barditti, under the ban- 
ners of imagination, whim, caprice, and passion: 
and the heavy-arm.ed veteran regulars of wis- 
dom, prudence, afld forethought move so very, 
very slow, that I am alm'ost in a state of per- 
petual warfare, and, alas! frequent defeat. 
There are just two creatures I would envy, a 
horse in his wild state traversing the forests of 
Asia, or an oyster on some of the desert shores 
of Europe. The one has not a vfish without en- 
joyment, the other has neither wish nor fear. 

R. B. 



XCIIT. 
TO SIR .JOHN WHITEFOORD. 

[The Whitefoords of Whitefoord, interested them- 
nelvesin all matters connected with literature : the power 
3{ the familj', unluckily for Burns, was not equal to their 
taste.] 



Sih, 



Edinburgh, December, 1787. 



Mr. Mackenzie, in Mauchline, my very warm 
and worthy friend, has informed me how much 
you are pleased to interest yourself in my fate 
as a man, and (what to me is incomparably 
dearer) my fame as a poet. I have, Sir, in one 
or two instances, been patronized by those of 
your character in life, when I was introduced to 
their notice by ***** friends to them, and ho- 
noured acquaintances to me ! but you are the 
first gentleman in the country whose benevo- 
lence and goodness of heart has interested him- 
self for me, unsolicited and unknown. I am 
not master enough of the etiquette of these mat- 
ters to know, nor did I stay to inquire,, whe- 
ther formal duty bade, or cold propriety disal- 
lowed, my thanking you in this manner, as I 
am convinced, from the light in which you 
Kindly view me, that you will do me the jus- 
Bee tc believe tLis letter is not the manoeuvre 
if the needy, sharping author, fastening on 



those in upper life, who honour him -with t 
little notice of him or his works. . Indeed, th« 
situation of poets is generally such, to a pro- 
verb, as may, in some measure, palliate that 
prostitution of heart and talents, thej have at 
times been guilty of. I do not think prodigality 
is, by any means, a necessary concomitant of 
a poetic turn, but I believe a careless indolent 
attention to economy, is almost inseparible 
from it; then there must be in the heart ai 
every bard of Nature's making, a certain mo- 
dest sensibility, mixed with a kind of pride, 
that will ever keep him out of the way of those 
windfalls of fortune which frequently light on 
hardy impudence and foot-licking servility. It 
is not easy to imagine a more helpless state than 
his whose poetic fancy unfit* him for the world, 
and whose character as a scholar gives him some 
pretensions to t\\e politesse q£ life — yet is as poor 
as I am. 

For my part, I thank Heaven my star has 
been kinder ; learning never elevated my ideas 
above the peasant's shed, and I have an inde- 
pendent fortune at the plough-tail. 

I was surprised to hear that any one who pre 
tended in the least to the manners of the gentle- 
man, should be so foolish, or worsCj as to stoop 
to traduce the itiorals of such a one as I am, 
and so inhumanly cruel, too, as to meddle with 
that late most unfortunate, unhappy part of my 
story. With a tear of gratitude, I thank you, 
Sir, for the warmth with which you interposed 
in behalf of my conduct. I am, I acknowledge, 
too frequently the sport of whim, caprice, and 
passion, but reverence to God, and integrity to 
my fellow-creatures, I hope I shall ever pre- 
serve. I have no return. Sir, to make you for 
your goodness but one — a return which, I am 
persuaded, will not be unacceptable — the honest, 
warm wishes of a grateful heart for your hap- 
piness, and every one of that lovely flock, who 
stand to you in a filial relation. If ever ca- 
lumny aim the poisoned shaft at them, May 
friendship be by to ward the blow ! 

R. B 



XCIV. 
TO MISS WILLIAMS, 

ON READING HER POEM OF THE SLAVB-TRADB. 

[The name and merits of Miss Williams ate widely 
known ; nor is it a small honour t-" "ler muse that lis! 
tender song of " Evan BarVs" was imputed to Itnrju bj 



OF EGBERT BURNS. 



86'' 



Crornek: other editors siren hsve continued to include j 

-J his works, though Sir Walter Scott named the true 
Mthor.J 

Edinburgh, Dec. 1787. 

I KNOW very little of scientitic criticism, so 
all I can pretend to in that intricate art is 
merely to note, as I read along, what passages 
Btrike me as being uncommonly beautiful, and 
wbere the expression seems to be perplexed or 
/&ulty. • . 

The poem opens finely. There are none of 
these idle prefatory lines which one may skip 
over before one comes to the subject. Verses 
9th and 10th in particular, 

' Where ocean's unseen bound 
Leaves a drear world of waters round," 

are truly beautiful. The simile of the hurri- 
cane is likewise Sne ; and, indeed, beautiful as 
the poem is, almost all the similes rise decidedly 
above it. From verse 31st to verse 50th is a 
pretty eulogy on Britain. Verse 36th, "That 
foul drama deep with wrong," is nobly expres- 
Bive. Verse 46th, I am afraid, is rather un- 
worthy of the rest ; " to dare to feel" is an ide/i 
that I do not altogether like. The contrast of 
valour and mercy, from the 36th verse to the 
50th, is admirable. 

Either my apprehension is dull, or there is 
something a little confused in the apostrophe to 
Mr. Pitt. Verse 55th is the antecedent to verses 
57th and 58th, but in verse 58th the connexion 
seems ungrammatical : — 

" Powers . . . . . 

With no gradrttiond mark'd their flight. 
But rose at once to glory's height." 
Ris'n should be the word instead of rose. Try 
it in prose. Powers, — their flight marked by 
no gradations, but [the same powers] risen at : 
once to the height of glory. Likewise, verse ! 
63d'. "For this," is evidently meant to lead on 
the sense of the verses 59th, 60th, 61st, and j 
^Zi : but let us try how the thread of connex- 
ion runs, — 

" For this 

The deeds of mercy, that embrace 
A distant sphere, an alien race, 
Shall virtue's lips record and claim 
The fairest honours of thy name." 

I beg pardon if I misapprehended the matter, 
but this appears to me the only imperfect pas- 
lage in the poem. The comparison of the sun- 
team is fine. 

The compliment to the Duke of Richmond is. 



I hope, as just as it is certainly elegant. Th# 
thought. 



Sends from her unsu>iied source, 
, The gems oi though, their purest force," 

is exceeding beautiful. The idea, from vers< 
81st to the 8-5th, that the "blest decree" is like 
the beams of morning ushering in the glorioua 
day of liberty, ought not to pass unnoticed or 
unapplauded. From verse 85th to verse 108th, 
is an animated contrast between the unfeeling 
selfishness of the oppressor on the one hand, 
and the misery of the captive on the other. 
Verse 88th might perhaps be amended thus : 
" Nor ever quit her narrow maze." We are said 
to pass a bound, but we quit a maze. Verse 100th 
is exquisitely beautiful : — 

" They, whom wasted blessings tire.'' 
Verse 110th is I doubt a clashing of metaphors j 
" to load a span" is, I am afraid, an unwarrant- 
able expression. In verse 114th, " Cast the 
universe in shade," is a fine idea. From the 
115th verse to the 142d is a striking description 
of the wrongs of the poor African. Verse 
120th, " The load of unremitted pain," is a re- 
markable, strong expression. The address to the 
advocates for abolishing the slave-trade, from 
verse 143d to verse 208th, is animated with 
the true life of genius. The picture of oppres- 
sion, — 

" While she links her impious chain, 
And calculates the price of pain; 
Weighs agony in sordid scales, 
And marks if death or life prevails," — 

is nobly executed. 

What a tender idea is in verse 108th ! In- 
deed, that whole description of 'home may vie 
with Thomson's description of home, some- 
where in the beginning of his Autumn. I do 
not remember to have seen a stronger expres- 
sion of misery than is contained in theae 
verses : — 

'• CondemMd, severe extreme,, ro ive 
■VTnen all is fled that life C6B give " 

The comparison of our distant joys to liataui 
objects is equally original and striking. 

The character and manners of the dealer in 
the infernal traflSc is a well done though a hor- 
rid picture. I am not sure- how far introduc- 
ing the sailor was right ; for though the sailor's 
common characteristic is generosity, yet, in 
this case, he is certainly not only an uncon- 
cerned witness, but, in* some degree, an eSicf^nt 



Bgent in the business. Verse 224th is a ner- 
vous .... expressive — " The heart convulsive 
anguish breaks." The description of the cap- 
tive wretch wlien he arrives in the West Indies, 
is carried on with equal spirit. The thought 
that the oppressor's sorrow on seeing the slave 
pine, is like the butcher's regret when his 
destined lamb dies a natural death, is exceed- 
ingly fine. 

i am got so much into the cant of criticism, 
that I begin to be afraid lest I have nothing ex- 
cept the cant of it ; and instead of elucidating 
my author, am only benighting myself. For 
this reason, I will not pretend to go through the 
whole poem. Some few remaining beautiful 
lines, however, I cannot pass over. Verse 280th 
is the strongest description of selfishness I ever 
Baw- The comparison of verses 285th and 
286th is new and fine; and the line, "Your 
arms to penury you lend," is excellent. In 
verse 317th, "like" should certainly be "as" 
or " so ;" for instance — 

" His sway the hardeneti bosom lead-s 
To cruelty's remorseless deeds : 
As (or, so) the blue lightning when it springs 
With fury on its livid wings", 
Darts on the goal with rapid force, 
Nor heeds that ruin marks its course." 

If you insert the word "like" where I have 
placed " as," you must alter "darts" to "dart- 
ing," and "heeds" to "l^eeding" in order to 
make it _^'rammar. A tempest is a favourite 
subject with the poets, but I do not remember 
anything even in Thomson's Winter superior to 
your verses from the 347th to the £51 st. In- 
deed, the last simile, beginning with "Fancy 
may dress," &c., and ending with the 850th 
verse, is, in my opinion, the most beautiful pas- 
sage in the poem; it would do honour to the 
greatest names that ever graced our profession. 

I will not beg your pardon. Madam, for these 
strictures, as my conscience tells me, that for 
once in my life I have acted up to the duties of 
R Christian, in doing as I would be done by. 

R. B. 



TO MR. RICHAED BRQWN, 

IRVINE. 

(Michard Brawn -was tbe"hapless son of misfortune," 
*Maded to by Burns Ip his biographical letter to Dr. 



Moore ; by fortitude and prudence he retrieved his for 
tunes, and lived much respected in Greenock, to a goof 
old age. He said Burns had little to learn in matters oi 
levity, when he became acquainted with him.] 

Edinburgh, ZOth Dec 1787. 
Mt deak Sie, 

I HAVE met with few things in life whicl 
have given me more pleasyre than Fortune's 
kindness to you since those days in which we 
met in the vale of misery ; as I can honestly? 
say, that I never knew a man who more truly 
deserved it, or to whom my heart more truly 
wished it. I have been much indebted since 
that time to your story and sentiments for steel- 
ing my mind against evils, of which I have had 
a pretty decent share. My will-o'wisp fate 
you know : do you recollect a Sunday we spent 
together in Egiinton woods ! You told me, on 
my repeating some verses to you, that you won- 
dered I could resist the temptation of sending 
verses of such merit to a magazine. It was 
from this remark I derived that idea of my own 
pieces, which encouraged me to endeavour at 
the character of a poet. I am happy to hear 
that you will be two or three months at home. 
As soon as a bruised limb will permit me, I 
shall return to Ayrshire, and we shall meet; 
"and faith, I hope we'll not sit dumb, nor yet 
cast out !" 

I have much to tell you '• of men, their man- 
ners, and their ways," perhaps a little of the 
other sex. Apropos, I beg to be remembered 
to Mrs. Brown. There I doubt not, my dear 
friend, but you have found substantial happiness. 
I expect to find you something of an altered but 
not a diff'erent man ; the wild, bold, generous 
young fellow composed into the steady affection- 
ate husband, and the fond careful parent. Foi 
me, I am just the same will-o'-wisp being I usea 
to be. About the first and fourth quarters of the 
moon, I generally set in for the trade wind of 
wisdom ; but about the full and change, I am 
the luckless victim of mad tornadoes, wliich 
blow me into chaos. Almighty love s^ill reigna 
and revels in my bosom ; and I am at this mo- 
ment ready to hang myself for a young Edin- 
burgh widow, who has wit and wisdom more 
murderously fatal than the assassinating stiletto 
of the Sicilian banditti, or the poisoned arrow of 
the savage African. My highland dirk, that used 
to hang beside my crutches, I have gravely re- 
moved into a neighbouring closet, the key of 
which I cannot command in case of spring, 
tide paroxysms. You may guess of her wit bj 



OP EOBEKT BURNS. 



36J» 



She following verses, which she Bent me the 
«tber day :-^ 

Talk not of love, it gives me pain, 

t or love, has been my foe ; 
Ht> bound me with an iron chain, 

And plunged me deep in woe ! 

But friendship's pure and lasting joys, 

My heart was formed to prove, — 
There, welcome, win, and wear the prize, 

But never talk of love ! 

Your friendship much can make me blest 

O why that bliss destroy ? 
Why urge the odious one request, 

You know I must deny?"' 

My best compliments to our friend Allan. 
*dieu! R. B. 



TO GAVIN HAMILTON. 

^rhe Harailtons of the West continue to love the 
nemory of Burns : the old arm-chair in which the bard 
sat, when he visited Nanse Tinnocks, was lately pva- 
»ented to the mas n I.idge of Maucbline, by Dr. Hamil- 
ion, the " wee cuny Joiinnie" of the Dedication.] 

[Edi7ibuTgh, Dec. 1787.] 
My deak Sir, 
It is indeed with the highest pleasure that 
r congratulate you on the return of days of ease 
ind nights of pleasure, after the horrid hours 
of misei-y in which I saw you suffering existence 
when last in Ayrshire ; I seldom pray for any 
body, " I'm baith dead-sweer and wretched ill 
o't ;" but most fervently do I beseech the Power 
tliat directs the world, that you may live long 
and be happy, but live no longer than you are 
happy. It is needless for me to advise ; ou to 
have a reverend care of your health. I know 
you will make it a point never at one time to 
drink more than a pint of wine (I mean an 
3nglish pint), and that you will never be wit- 
ness to more than one bowl of punch at a time, 
and that cold drams you will never more taste ; 
and, above all things, I am convinced, that after 
drinking perhaps boiling punch, you will never 
mount 3'our horse and gallop home in a chill 
late hour. Above all things, as I understahd 
you are in habits of intimacy with that Boaner- 
ges of gospel powers, Father Auld, be earnest 
with him that he will wrestle in prayer for you, 

1 See song 186, in Johnsoi.'s Musical Museum. Burns 
stored the two last lines, and added a stanza : 
Why urge the only one request 
You know I will deny ! 



that you may see the vanity of vanities in trust- 
ing to, or even practising the casual moral 
works of charity, humanity, genorosity, and 
forgiveness of things, which you practised so 
flagrantly that it was evident you delighted in 
them, neglecting, or perhaps profanely despis- 
ing, the wholesome doctrine of faith without 
works, the only anchor of salvation. A hymn 
of thanksgiving would, in my opinion, be highly 
becoming from you at present, and in my zeal for 
your well-being, I earnestly press on you to be 
diligent in chanting over the two enclosed pieces 
of sacred poesy. My best compliments to Mrs. 
Hamilton and Miss Kennedy. 

Yours in the L — d, 

E. B. 



xcvn. 

TO MISS CHALMERo. 

[The blank which takes the place of the name cf this 
" Gentleman in mind and mannera," of this letter, cac- 
not now be filled up, nor is it much matter : the acquaint 
ance of such a man as the poet describes few or noM 
would desire.] 

Edinburgh, Dec. 1787. 
Mt dear Madam, 
I JUST now have read yours. The poetic 
compliments I pay cannot be misunderstood. 
They are neither of them so particular as to 
point you out to the world at large ; and the 
circle of your acquaintances will allow all I have 
said. Besides, I have complimented you chiefly 
almost solely, on your mental charms. Shall I 
be plain with you ? I will ; so look to it. Per- 
sonal attractions. Madam, you have much above 
par ; wit, understanding, and worth, you pos- 
sess in the first class. This is a cursed flat way 
of telling you these truths, but let me hear no 
more of your sheepish timidity. I know the 
world a little. I know what they will say of 
my poems ; by second sight I suppose ; for I 
am seldom out in my conjectures ; and you mar 
believe me, my dear Madam, I would not run 
any risk of hurting you by any ill-judged coib 
pliment. I wish to show to the world, the oddg 
between a poet's friends and those of simple 
prosemen. More for. your information, both the 
pieces go in. One of them, " Where braving 



Your thought if love must hai>jur there. 

Conceal it in that thought ; 
Nor cause me from my bosom tear 

The very friend I sought. 



570 



GENERAL CORRESPON])ENCE 



angry winter's storms," is already set — the tune 
is Neil Gow's Lamentation for Abercarny ; tli& 
other is to" be set to an old Highland air in Da- 
niel Dow's collection of ancient Scots music; 
the name is " Ha a Chaillich air mo Dheith." My 
tref^cherous memory has forgot every circum- 
gtance about Les Incas, only I think you men- 
tiynt J them as being in Creech's possession. I 
«hall ask him about it. I am afraid the song 
9f " Somebody" will come too late — as I shall, 
for certain, leave town in a week for Ayrshire, 
and from that to Dumfries, but there my hopes 
are slender. I leave my direction in town, so 
anything, wherever I am, will reach me. 

1 saw yours to 5 it is not too severe, nor 

did he take it amiss. On the contrary, like a 
whipt spaniel, he talks of being with you in the 

Christmas days. Mr. has given him the 

invitation, and he is determined to accept of it. 
selfishness ! he owns, in his sober moments, 
that from his own volatility of inclination, the 
circumstances in which he is situated, and his 
knowledge of his father's disposition; — the 
whole affair is chimerical — yet he will gratify 
an idle penchant at the enormous, cruel expense, 
of perhaps ruining the peace of the very woman 
for whom he professes the generous passion of 
LtVG I He is a gentleman in his mind and man- 
ners — tint pis ! He is a volatile school-boy — 
the heir of a man's fortune who well knows the 
value of two times two I 

Perdition seize them and their fortunes, be- 
fore they should make the amiable, the lovely 

, the derided object of their purse-proud 

contempt I 

1 am doubly happy to hear of Mrs. 's reco- 

Tery,. because I really thought all was over with 
her. There are days of pleasure yet awaiting 
her: 

' As I came in b)' Glenap, 
I mat with an aged woman: 
She bad me cheer up iny heart, 
For the best o' my days was coroin'." 

This day will decide my affairs with Creech. 
Things are, like myself, not what they ought to 
^e ; yet better than what they appear to be, 

" Heaven's sovereign saves all beings but himself— 
That hideous sight— a nak^d human heart," 

Farewell ! remember me to Charlotte. 

R. B. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

[The poet alludes in this letter, as in some befoM, to J 
hurt which he got in one of his excursions in the naigfc 
hourhood of Edinburgh.] 

Edinburgh, January 21, 178S. 

Aftbk six weeks' confinement, I am beginning 
to walk across the room. They have been six 
horrible weeks ; anguish and low spirits male 
me unfit to read, write, or think. 

I have a hundred times wished that one coulu 
resign life as an officer resigns a commission* 
for I would not take in any poor, ignorant wretch, 
by selling out. Lately I was a sixpenny private ; 
and, Grod knows, a miserable soldier enough ; 
now I march to the campaign, a starving cadet : 
a little more conspicuously wretched. 

I am ashamed of all this ; for though T do 
want bravery for the warfare of life, I could 
wish, like some other soldiers, to have as much 
fortitude or cunning as to dissemble or conceal 
my cowardice. 

As soon as I can bear the journey, which will 
be, I suppose, about the middle of next week, I 
leave Edinburgh : and soon after I shall pay 
my grateful duty at Dunlop-House. 

R. B. 



XCIX. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

[The levity with which Burns sometimes spoke of 
things sacred, had been obliquely touched upon by his 
good and anxious friend Mrs. Duiilop: he pleads guilty 
of folly, but not of irreligion.] 

Edinburgh, February 12, 1785. 
Some things in your late letters hurt me : not 
that you say them, but that you mistake me. Re^ 
ligion, my honoured Madam, has not only been 
all my life my chief dependence, but my dt arest 
enjoyment. I have, indeed, been the luclcJeM 
victim of wayward follies ; but, alas 1 I ha^c 
ever been "more fool than knave." A jaathf- 
matician without religion is a probable rjharaO' 
ter ; an irreligious poet is a monster. 

R. B 



TO THE REV. JOHN SKINNER. 

[When Bump -rndertook to suppl> J )hnson vrA\ aoDf 1 
f'*r the Musical Museum, he laid all the bards of SrotiaM 



inder contribution, and Skinner among the number, of 
ti'hoRe talents, as wel. as those of Ross, author of Hele- 
fcore, he was a great admirer.] 

Edinburgh, 14i;A February, 1788. 
Reverend and dear Sir, 

I HAVE been a cripple now near three months, 
though I am gecting vastly better, and have 
been very much hurried beside, or else I would 
bave wrote you sooner. I must beg your par- 
inu for the epistle you sent me ap'pearing in the 
Magazine. I had given a copy or two to some 
of my intimate friends, but did not know of the 
printing of it till the publication of the Maga- 
zine. However, as it does great honour to us 
both, you ■■lill forgive it. 

The second volume of the songs I mentioned 
to you in my last is published to-day. I send 
you a copy which I beg you will accept as a 
mark of the veneration I have long had, and 
shall ever have, for your character, and of the 
claim I make to your continued acquaintance. 
Your songs appear in the third volume, with 
your name in the index ; as, I assure you, Sir, 
I have heard your " Tullochgorum," particu- 
larly among our west-country folks, given to 
many different names, and most commonly to 
the immortal author of "The Minstrel," who, 
Indeed, never wrote anything superior to "Gie's 
a sang, Montgomery cried." Your brother has 
promised me your verses to the Marquis of 
Huntley's reel, which certainly deserve a place 
In the collection. My kind host, Mr. Cruik- 
Bhank, of the High-school here, and said to be 
one of the best Latins in this age, begs me to 
make you his grateful acknowledgments for the 
entertainment he has got in a Latin publica- 
tion of yours, that I borrowed for him from 
your acquaintance and much respected friend 
in this place, the Reverend Dr. Webster. Mr. 
Cruikshank maintains that you write the best 
Latin since Buchanan. I leave Edinburgh to- 
morrow, but shall return in three weeks. Your 
long you mentioned in your last, to the tune of 
"Dumbarton Drums," and the other, which you 
lay was done by a brother by trade of mine, a 
ploughman, I shall thank you much for a copy 
of eacb. I am ever. Reverend Sir, with the 
BDiost respectful esteem and sincere veneration, 
fours, R. B. 



TO RiCHARD BROWN. 

[The letters of Bu»-ns to^Brown and Smith, and Bic» 
mond, and others of his west-conntry friends, writt«« 
when he was in the first flush of fame, show that he -lid 
not forget humble men, who anticipated the public m 
perceiving his merit.] 

Edinburgh, February Ibth^ 1788. 
Mt dear Friend, 
I RECEIVED yours with the greatest pleasure. 
I shall arrive at Glasgow on Monday evening ; 
and beg, if possible, you will meet me on Tues- 
day. I shall wait you Tuesday all day. I shall 
be found at Davies', Black Bull inn. I am hur- 
ried, as if hunted by fifty devils, else I should 
go to Greenock ; but if you cannot possibly come, 
write me. if possible, to Glasgow, on Monday ; 
or direct to me at Mossgiel by Mauchline ; and 
name a day and place in Ayrshire, within a fort- 
night from this date, where I may meet you. 1 
only stay a fortnight in Ayrshire, and return 
to Edinburgh. I am ever, my dearest friend, 
yours, 

R. B. 



CII. 

TO MRS. ROSE, OF KILRAVOCjI. 

[Mrs. Rose of Kilravock, a lady distinguished 6y tne 
elegance of her manners, as well as by her talents, waa 
long remembered by Burns : she procured for him snatches 
of old songs, and copies of northern melodies ; to her wtr 
owe the preservation of some fine ans as well as the in 
spiration of some fine lyrics.] 

Edinburgh, February 17th, 1788. 
Madam, 

You are much indebted to some indispensabit 
business I have had on my hands, otherwise mj 
gratitude threatened such a return for vou» 
obliging favour as would have tired your ps.tl- 
ence. It but poorly expresses my feelings to say 
that I am sensible of your kindness : it may b« 
said of hearts such as yours is, and such, I hope, 
mine is, much more justly than Addison applies 
it,— 

" Some souls by instinct to each other turn. " 

There was something in my reception at Kil- 
ravock ^0 different' from the cold, obsequious, 
dancing-school bow of politeness, that it almosi 
got into my head that friendship had occupieil 



572 



GENEKAL CORRESPONDENCE 



tier ground without the intermediate march of 
acquaintance. I wish I could transcribe, or 
rather transfuse into language, the glow of my 
heart when T read your letter. My ready fancy, 
with colours more mellow than life itself, painted 
the beautifully wild scenery of Kilravock — the 
venerable grandeur of the castle — the spreading 
woods — the winding river, glady leaving his 
unsightly, heathy source, and lingering with ap- 
parent delight as he passes the fairy walk at the 
bottom of the garden; — your late distressful 
anxieties — your present enjoyments — your dear 
little angel, the pride of your hopes ; — my aged 
friend, venerable in worth and years, whose 
loyalty and other virtues will strongly entitle 
her to the support of the Almighty Spirit here, 
and his peculiar favour in a happier state of ex- 
istence. You cannot imagine. Madam, how 
much such feelings delight me ; they are my 
dearest proofs of my own immortality. Should 
I never revisit the north, as probably I never 
will, nor again see your hospitable mansion, 
were I, some twenty years hence, to see your 
little fellow's name making a proper figure in a 
newspaper paragraph, my heart would bound 
with pleasure. 

I am assisting a friend in a collection of Scot- 
tish songs, set to their proper tunes ; every air 
worth preserving is to be included : among others 
I have given " Morag," and some few Highland 
airs which pleased me most, a dress which will 
be more generally known, though far, far infe- 
rior in real merit. As a small mark of my 
grateful esteem, I beg leave to present you with 
a copy of the work, as far as it is printed ; the 
Man of Feeling, that first of men, has promised 
to transmit it by the first opportunity. 

I beg to be remembered most respectfiilly to 
my venerable friend, and to your little Highland 
chieftain. When you see the " two fair spirits 
of the hill," at Kildrummie,^ tell them that I 
have done myself the honour of setting myself 
iown as one of their admirers for at least twenty 
years to come, consequently they must look 
upon me as an acquaintance for the same period ; 
but, as the apostle Paul says, " this I ask of 
frace, not of debt." 

I have the honour to be, Madam, &c., 
R. B. 



' Miss Sophia Brodie, of L , and Miss Rose of 

Aiiravock 



cm.. 

TO RICHARD BROWN. 

[While Burns was confined to his lodgings by hd 
maimed lirab, he beguiled the time and eased the pain b) 
composing the Clarinda epistles, writing songs for John 
son, and letters to his compauions.] 

3fossffiel, 2ith Februarj, 178?. 
My dear Sir, 

I CANNOT get the proper direction for mj 
friend in Jamaica, but the following will do : — 
To Mr. Jo. Hutchinson, at Jo. Brownrigg's, 
Esq., care of Mr. Benjamin Henriquez, mer- 
chant. Orange-street, Kingston. I arrived here, 
at my brother's, only yesterday, after fighting my 
way through Paisley and Kilmarnock, against 
those old powerful foes of mine, the devil, the 
world, and the flesh — so terrible in the fields oi 
dissipation. I have met with few incidents in 
my life which gave me so much pleasure as 
meeting you in Glasgow. There is a time of 
life beyond which we cannot form a tie worth 
the name of friendship. " youth ! enchanting 
stage, profusely blest." Life is a fairy scene: 
almost all that deserves the name of enjoyment 
or pleasure is only a charming delusion ; and in 
comes repining age in all the gravity of hoary 
wisdom, and wretchedly chases away the be- 
witching phantom, AVhen I think of life, I re- 
solve to keep a strict look-out in the course of 
economy, for the sake of worldly convenience 
and independence of mind ; to cultivate intimacy 
with a few of the companions of youth, that 
they may be the friends of age ; never to re- 
fuse my liquorish humour a handful of tha 
sweetmeats of life, when they come not too dear,- 
and, for futurity, — 

" The present moment is our ain, 
The neist we never saw !"' 

How like you my philosophy ? Give my b^sj 
compliments to Mrs. B., and believe me to be, 
My dear Sir, 

Tours most truly, 
R. B 



TO MR. WILLIAM CRUIKSHANK. 

[The excise and farming alternately occupied tne po«t'f 
thoughts in Edinburgh : he studied bool s of husbacdrv 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



37S 



nd took lessons in gauging, and in the .atter he became 
Xpert. J 

Mauchline, March M, 1788. 
My dear Sir, 

Apologies for not writing are frequently 
dke apologies for not singing — the apology 
oetter than the song. I have fought my way 
leverely through the savage hospitality of this 
country, to send every guest drunk to bed if 
'.hey can. 

I executed your commission in Glasgow, and 
I hope the cocoa came safe. 'Twas the same 
price and the very same kind as your former 
parcel, for the gentleman recollected your buy- 
ing there perfectly well. 

I should return my thanks for your hos- 

pitality (I leave a blank for the epithet, as I 
know none can do it justice) to a poor, wayfar- 
ing bard, who was spent and almost overpowered 
fighting with prosaic wickednesses in high 
places ; but I am afraid lest you should burn 
the letter whenever you come to the passage, 
so i pass over it in silence. I am jusf re- 
turned from visiting Mr. Miller's farm. The 
friend whom I told you I would take with me 
was highly pleased with the farm ; and as he is, 
without exception, the most intelligent farmer 
in the country, he has staggered me a good 
deal. I have the two plans of life before me ; 
I shall balance them to the best of my judgment, 
and fix On tne most eligible. I have written 
Mr. Miller, and shall wait on him when I come 
to town, which shall be the beginning or middle 
of next week ; I would be in sooner, but my un- 
lucky knee is rather worse, and I fear for some 
time will scarcely stand the fatigue of my Ex- 
cise instructions. I only mention these ideas to 
you ; and, indeed, except Mr. Ainslie, whom I 
Intend writing to to-morrow, I will not write at 
all to Edinburgh till I return to it. I would 
Bend my complimeuts to Mr. Nicol, but he would 
be hurt if he knew I wrote to anybody and not 
to him : so I shall only, beg my best, kindest, 
kindest compliments to my worthy hostess and 
tie sweet little rose-bud. 

So soon as I am settled in the routine of life, 
uther as an Excise-officer, or as a farmer, I pro- 
pose myself great pleasure from a regular cor- 
respoudence with the only man almost I ever 
saw who joined the most attentive prudence with 
the warmest generosity. 

I am much interested for that best of men. 



Mr. Wood ; I hope he is in better health ana 
spirits than when I saw him last. 
I am ever. 

My dearest friend, 
Your obliged, humble servant, 

R B 



cv. 

TO ROBERT AINSLIE, ESQ. 

[The sonsible and intelligent farmer op whose ju-tp 
ment Burns depended in the choice of his farm, WiE Mr 
Tait, of Glenconner.] 

Mauchline, Zd March, 1788. 
My dear Friend, 

I AM just returned from Mr. Miller's farm. 
My old friend whom I took with me was highly 
pleased with the bargain, and advised me to ac- 
cept of it. He is the most intelligent sensible 
farmer in the county, and his advice has stag- 
gered me a good deal. I have the two plans 
before me : I shall endeavour to balance them 
to the best of my judgement, and fix on the 
most eligible. On the whole, if I find Mr. Mil 
ler in the same favourable disposition as when 
I saw him last, I shall in all probability turn 
farmer. 

I have been through sore tribulation and 
under much bufi'eting of the wicked one since 
I came to this country. Jean I found banished, 
forlorn, destitute- and friendless : I have recoE 
ciled her to her fate, and I have reconciled he. 
to her mother. 

I shall be in Edinburgh middle of next week. 
My farming ideas I shall keep private till I see. 
I got a letter from Clarinda yesterday, and she 
tells me she has got no letter of mine but one. 
Tell her that I wrote to her from Glasgow, from 
Kilmarnock, from Mauchline, and ycsterdaj 
from Cumnock as I returned from Dumfriea 
Indeed "she is the only person in Edinburgh I 
have written to till this day. How are your socj 
and body putting up ? — a little like man an(f 
wife, I suppose. K. B 



S74 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



cvi. 

TO EICHARD BROWN. 

[Richard Brown, it is said, fell off in his liking for 
Burns when he found that he had made free with his 
ft4aie in his epistle to Moore.] 

Mauchline, 7th March, 1788. 

I H A.VE been out of the country, my dear friend, 
and have not had an opportunity of writing till 
now, when I am afrni^i you will be gone out of 
the country too. I hare been looking at farms, 
and, after all, perhaps J may settle in the cha- 
racter of a farmer. I have got so vicious a bent 
to idleiipess, and have ever been so little a man 
of business, that it will take no ordinary effort 
to bring my mind properly into the routine : but 
you -will say a "great effort is worthy of you." 
I say so myself ; and butter up ray vanity with 
all the stimulating compliments I can think of. 
Men of grave, geometrical minds, the sons of 
"which was to be demonstrated," may cry up 
reason as much as they please ; but 1 have al- 
ways found an honest passion, or native instinct, 
*^he truest auxiliary in the warfare of this 
world. Reason almost always comes to me like 
an unlucky wife to a poor devil of a husband, 
just in suflBcient time to add her reproaches to 
his other grievances. 

I am gratified with your kind inquiries after 
Jean ; as, after all, I may say with Othello : — 

" Excellent wretch ! 

Perdition catch my soul, but I do love thee !" 

I go for Edinburgh on Monday. 

Yours,— R. B. 



CVII. 
TO MR. MUIR. 



[The change which Burns says in this .etter took place 
Ib nis ideas, refers, it is said, to his West India voyage, 
mi which, it appears by one of his letters to Smith, he 
BSditated for some time after his debut in Edinburgh.] 



. 7ih March, 1788. 
Dear Sir, 
I HAVE partly changed my ideas, my dear 
friend, since I saw you. I took old Glenconner 
tfith me to Mr. Miller's farm, and he was so 
pleased with it, that I have wrote an offer to 
Mr. Miller, which, if he accepts, I shall sit down 
a plain farmer, the happiest of lives when a man 
san live by it In this case I shall not stay in 



Edinburgh above a week. I set out on Monday, 
and would have come by Kilmarnock, but ther« 
are several small sums owing me for my first 
edition about Galston and Newmilis, and I shall 
set off so early as to dispatch myjDusiness, and 
reach Glasgow by night. When I return, I 
shall devote a forenoon or two to make some 
kind of acknowledgment for all the kindness ] 
owe your friendship. Now that I hope to setti<» 
with some credit and comfort at home, there 
was not any friendship or friendly correspon 
dence that promised me more pleasure than 
yours ; 1 hope I will not be disappointed. I 
trust the spring will renew your shattered frame, 
and make your friends happy. You and I have 
often agreed that life is no great blessing on the 
whole. The close of life, indeed, to a reasoning 
eye, is, 

" Dark as was chaos, ere the infant sun 
Was roll'd together, or had try'd his beams 
Athwart the gloom profound. "i 

But an honest man has nothing to fear. If 
we lie down in the grave, the whole man a piece 
of broken machinery, to moulder with the clods 
of the valley, be it so ; at least there is an end 
of pain, care, woes, and wants : if that part of ua 
called mind does survive the apparent destruc- 
tion of the man — away with old-wife prejudices 
and tales ! Every age and every nation has had 
a different set of stories ; and as the many are 
always weak, of consequence, they have often, 
pei'haps always, been deceived ; a man conscious! 
of having acted an honest part among his fellow- 
creatures — even granting th*,t he may have 
been the sport at times of passions and instincts 
— he goes to a great unknown Being, who could 
have no other end in giving him existence but 
to make him happy, who gave him those pas- 
sions and instincts, and well knows their force 

These, my worthy friend, are my ideas ; and 
I know they are not far different from yours- 
It becomes a man of sense to think for himself, 
particularly in a case where all men are equally 
interested, and where, indeed, all men are equ al ij 
in the dark. 

Adieu, my dear Sir ; God send us a cheerful 
meeting ! - R. B. 

1 Blair's Grave. 



OF EOBE'KT BURNS. 



37ij 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

lOne of the daughters of Mrs. Dunlop painted a sketch 
H Cn la from ^urns's poem of the Vision : it is still in 
•ziBtence, and is said to have merit.] 

Mossffiel, nth March, 1788. 
Madam, 
Thb last paragraph in yours of the 30th Fe- 
bi nary affected me most, so I shall begin my 
linswer where you ended your letter. That I 
am often a sinner with any little wit I have, I 
dc confess : hut I have taxed my recollection to 
n purpose, to find out when it was employed 
against you. I hate an ungenerous sarcasm a 
great deal worse than I do the devil ; at least 
as Milton describes him ; and though I may be 
rascally enough to be sometimes guilty of it my- 
self, I cannot endure it in others. You, my 
honoured friend, who cannot appear in any light 
but you are sure of being respectable — you can 
aflFord to pass by an occasion to display your 
wit, because you may depend for fame on your 
Bense ; or, if you choose to be silent, you know' 
you can rely on the gratitude of many, and the 
esteem of all ; but, God help us, who are wits 
or witlings by profession, if we stand not for 
fame there, we sink unsupported ! 

I am highly flattered by the news you tell me 
of Coila. I may say to the fair painter who 
does me so much honour, as Dr. Beattie says to 
Ross the poet of his muse Scota, from which, 
by the bye, I took the idea of Coila ('tis a poem 
of Beattie's in the Scottish dialect, which per- 
haps you have never seen :) — 

" Ye shak your heads, but o' my fegs, 
Ye've set auld Scota on her legs : 
Lang had she lien wi' beffs and flegs, 
Bumbaz'd and dizzie. 
Her fiddle wanted strings and pegs. 

Wae's me, poor Lizzie." 
B. B. 



TO MISS CHALMERS. . 

rTlie incouth cares of which the poet complains in 
this leaer were the construction of a common farm- 
touee, with barn, byre, and stable to suit.] 

Edinburgh, March 14, 1788. 
I KNOW, my ever dear friend, that you will be 
pleased with the news when I tell you, I have 
at last taken a lease of a farm. Yesternight I 



completed a bargain with Mr. MLler. of Dal- 
swinton, for the farm of Ellisland, on the banka 
of the Nith, between five and six miles above 
Dumfries. I begin at Whit-Sunday to build a 
house, drive lime, &c. ; and heaven be my help f 
for it will take a strong effort to bring my mind 
into the routine of business. I have discharged 
all the army of my former pursuits, fancies, and 
pleasures ; a motley host ! and have literall; 
and strictly retained only the ideas of a fe^ 
friends, which I have incorporated into a life 
guard. I trust in Dr. Johnson's observation, 
"Where much is attempted, something is dene." 
Firmness, both in sufferance and exertion, is a 
character I would wish to be thought to pos- 
sess : and have always despised the whining 
yelp of complaint, and the cowardly, feeble re 
solve. 

Poor Miss K. is ailing a good deal thia 
winter, and begged me to remember her to yotj 
the first time I wrote to you. Surely woman, 
amiable woman, is often made in vain. Too 
delicately formed for the rougher pursuits of 
ambition; too noble for the dirt of avarice, 
and even too gentle for the rage of pleasure ; 
formed indeed for, and highly susceptible of en- 
joyment and rapture; but that enjoyment, 
alas ! almost wholly at the mercy of the caprice, 
malevolence, stupidity, or wickedness of an 
animal at all times comparatively unfeeling, and 
often brutal. R B 



TO RICHARD BROWN. 

[The excitement referred to in this letter arose from 
the dilatory and reluctant movements of Creech, who 
w^as so slow in settling his accounts that the poet Bnfl< 
pected his solvency.] 

Glasgow, 2Uh March, 1788. 
I AM monstrously to blame, my dear Sir, vu 
not writing to you, and sending you the Direo* 
tory. I have been getting my tack extended, 
as I have taken a farm ; and I have been rack- 
ing shop accounts with Mr. Creech, both of 
which, together with watching, fatigue, and a 
load of care almost too heavy for my shoulders, 
have in some degree actually fevered me. I 
really forgot the Directory yesterday, whicli 
vexed me ; but I was convulsed with rage a great 
part of the day. I have to thank you for the 
ingenious, friendly, and elegant epistle froM 



B76 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



your friend Mr. Crawford. I shall certainly 
write to him, but not now. This is merely a 
card to you, as I am posting to Dumfries-shire, 
where many perplexing arrangements await 
me. I am vexed about the Directory ; but, my 
dear Sir, forgive me : these eight days I have 
been positively crazed. My compliments to 
Mrs B. I shall write to you at Grenada. — 
I ana ever, my dearest friend, 

Yours, — R. B. 



TO MR. ROBERT CLEGHORN. 

[Cleghovn was a farmer, a social man, and much of a 
musician. The poet wrote the Chevaliev's Lament to 
please the jacobitical taste of his friend ; and the musi- 
cian gave him advice in farming which he neglected to 
follow: — " Farmer Attention," says Cleghorn, "isagood 
farmer everywhere."] 

Mauchline, Zlst March, 1788. 

Yesterday, my dear Sir, as I was riding 
through a track of melancholy, joyless muirs, 
between Galloway and Ayrshire, it being Sun- 
day, I turned my thoughts to psalms, and 
aymns, and spiritual songs ; and your favour- 
ite air, " Captain O'Kean," coming at length 
into my head, I tried these words to it. You 
will see that the first part of the tune must 'be 
••epeated. 

I am tolerably pleased with these verses, but 
as I have only a sketch of the tune, I leave it 
with you to try if they suit the measure of the 
music. 

I am so harassed with care and anxiety^, about 
•'his farming project of mine, that my muse has 
degenerated into the veriest prose-wench that 
ever picked cinders, or followed a tinker. When 
I am fairly got into the routine of business, I 
shall trouble you with a longer epistle ; perhaps 
with some queries respecting farming ; at pre- 
Bent, the world sits such a load on my mind, 
that it has effaced almost every trace of the 
poet in me. 

My very best compliments and good wishes 
Is Mrs Cleghorn. 

R. B. 



TO MR. WILLIAM DUNBAR, 

EDINBURGH. 

[This letter was printed for the first time by RobeT! 
Chambers, in his " People's Edition" of Burns J 

Mauchline, 7th April, 1788. 

I HAVE not delayed so long to write you, my 
much respected friend, because I thought nc 
farther of my promise. I have long since 
give up that kind of formal correspondence, 
where one sits down irksomely to write a let- 
ter, because we think we are in duty bound so 
to do. 

I have been roving over the country, as the 
farm I have taken is forty miles from this place, 
hiring servants and preparing matters ; but 
most of all I am earnestly busy to bring about 
a revolution in my own mind. As, till within 
these eighteen months, I never was the wealthy 
master of ten guineas, my knowledge of busi- 
ness is to learn ; add to this my late scenes of 
idleness and dissipation have enervated my 
mind to an alarming degree. Skill in the sober 
science of life is my most serious- and hourly 
study. I have dropt all conversation and al. 
reading (prose reading) but what tends in some 
way or other to my serious aim. Except one 
worthy young fellow, I have not one single 
correspondent in Edinburgh. You have indeed 
kindly made me an offer of that kind. The 
world of wits, and gens comme il faut which I 
lately left, and with whom I never again will 
intimately mix — from that port. Sir, I expect 
your Gazette : what les beaux esprits are saying, 
what they are doing, and what they are sing- 
ing. Any sober intelligence from my seques- 
tered walks of life; any droll original; any 
passing reward, important forsooth, because it 
is mine ; any little poetic effort, however em- 
bryoth ; these, my dear Sir, are all you have 
to expect from me. When I talk of poetic 
efforts, I must have it always understood, that 
I appeal from your wit and taste to your friend- 
ship and good nature. The first would be my 
favourite tribunal, where I defied censure ; but 
the last, where I declined justice. 

I have scarcely made a single distich since 
I saw you. When I meet with an old Soots air 
that has any facetious idea in its name, I have 
a peculiar pleasure in following out that idea foJ 
a verse or two. 

I trust that this will find you in better healti 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



371 



jhan I did last time I called for you. A few 
lines from you, directed to me at Mauchline, 
were it but to let me know how you are^ will 
fcet my mind a good deal [at rest.] Now, never 
sLun the idea of writing me because perhaps 
you may be out of humour or spirits. I could 
give you a hundred good consequences attend- 
ing i dull letter ; one, for example, and the re- 
in aiding ninety-ifine some other time — it will 
always serve to keep in countenance, my much 
fespecttjd Sir, your obliged friend and humble 
liervant, R. B. 



TO MISS CHALMERS. 

[The Baerifice referred to by the poet, was tiis resolu- 
tion to unite his fortune with Jean Armour.] 

Mauchline, 7th April, 1788. 

I AM indebted to you and Miss Nimmo for 
letting me know Miss Kennedy. Strange ! how 
apt we are to indulge prejudices in our judg- 
ments of one another ! Even I, who pique my- 
gelf on my skill in marking characters — because 
I am too proud of my character as a man, to be 
dazzled in my judgment for glaring wealth; 
and too proud of my situation as a poor man 
to be biassel against squalid poverty — I was 
unacqaainted with Miss K.'s very uncommon 
worth. 

I am going on a good deal progressive in mon 
fraud but, the sober science of life. I have 
lately mad< some sacrifices, for which, were I 
vivd voce with you to paint the situation and re- 
count the circumstances, you should applaud 
mc. R. B. 



CXIV. 



TO MISS CHALMERS. 



fia iiKt alluded 
¥ 3taec5i; but tne bs 



was a whisper of the insolvency 
6 was firm as the Bass.] 



Ho date. 
WoT» for tiat wayward, unfortunate thing, my- 
gelf. I have broke measures with Creech, and 
last week I wrote him a frosty, keen letter. He 
replied in terms of chastisement, and promised 
me upon his honour thai I should have the ac- 
count on Mondajf ; but this is Tuesday, and yet 
I have not heard a word from him. God have 
mercy on me J a poor d-mned, incautious, duped, 



unfortunate fool ! The spoi-t, the miserable 
victim of rebellious pride, hypochondriac ima- 
gination, agonizing sensibility, and bedlam pas- 
sions ? 

" I wish that I were dead, but I'm no like to 
die !" I had lately " a hairbreadth 'scape in th' 
imminent deadly breach" of love too. Thani 
my stars, I got off heart-whole, " waur fleyd thaa 
hurt." — Interruption 

I have this moment got a hint: I fear I am 
something like — undone — but I hope for the 
best. Come, stubborn pride and unshrinking 
resolution ; accompany me through this, to me, 
miserable world ! You must not desert me ! 
Your friendship I think I can count on, though I 
should date my letters from a marching regiment. 
Early in life, and all my life I reckoned en a 
recruiting drum as my forlorn hope. Seriously 
though, life at present presents me with but a 
melancholy path: but — my limb will soon b« 
sound, and I shall struggle on. 

R. B 



cxv. 

TO MISS CHALMERS. 

[Although Burns gladly grasped at a situation in tL« 
Excise, he wrote many apologies to his friends, foi tlift 
acceptance of a place, which, though humble enough, 
was the only one that offered.] 

Edinburgh', Sunday. 
To-MOEUOW, my dear madam, I leave Edin- 
burgh. I have altered all my plans of future 
life. A farm that I could live in, I could noi 
find ; and, indeed, after the necessary support 
my brother and the rest of the family required, 
I could not venture on farming in that style 
suitable to my feelings. You will condemn me 
for the next step I have taken. I have entered 
into the Excise. I stay in the west about three 
weeks, and then return to Edinburgh, for six 
weeks' instructio^is : afterwards, for I get em- 
ploy instantly, I go oil il plait d Dieu, — et mon 
Roi. I have chosen this, my dear friend, after 
mature deliberation. The question is not at 
what door of fortune'^ palace shall we enter 
in ; but what doors does she open to us ? I waa 
not likely to get anything to do. I wanted un 
but, which is a dangerous, an unhappy situa 
tion. I got this without any hanging on, oi 
mortifying solicitation ; it is immediate bread, 
and though poor in comparison of the last eigh« 
teen months of my existence, 'tis luxury in com 



«78 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



parison of all my preceding life : besides, the 
tommissiouers are some of them my acquaint- 
ftnceSj and all of them my firm friends, 

R. B. 



CXVI. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

[The Tasso, with the perusal of which Mrs. Dun.op 
iiiduiged the poet, was not the fine version of Fairfax, 
hut the translation of Hoole — a far inferior performance.] 

Mauchline, 28th April, 1788. 
Madam, 

Your powers of reprehension must be great 
indeed, as I assure you they made my heart 
ache with penitential pangs, even though I was 
really not guilty. As I commence farmer at 
Whit-Sunday, you will easily guess I must be 
pretty busy; but that is not all. As I got the 
offer of the Excise business without solicitation, 
and as it costs me only six months' attendance 
for instructions, to entitle me to a commission 
— which commission lies by me, and at any 
future period, on my simple petition, can be re- 
sumed — I thought five-and-thirty pounds a-year 
was no bad dernier ressort for a poor poet, if for- 
tune in her jade tricks should kick him down 
from the little eminence to which she has lately 
helped him up. 

For this reason, I am at present attending 
these insti notions, to have them completed be- 
fore Whit-sunday, Still, Madam, I prepared 
with the sincerest pleasure to meet you at the 
Mount, and came to my brother's on. Saturday 
night, to set out on Sunday ; but for some nights 
preceding I had slept in an apartment, where 
the force of the winds and rains was only miti- 
gated by being sifted through numberless aper- 
tures in the windows, walls, &c. In consequence 
I was on Sunday, Monday, and part of Tuesday, 
nnable to stir out of bed, with all the miserable 
effects of a violent cold. 

You see, Madam, the truth of tlie French 
maxim, le vrai n'est pas touj'ours le vraisemblable ; 
your last was so full of expostulation, and was 
Bomething so like the language of an offended 
friend, that I began to tremble for a correspon- 
dence, which I had with grateful pleasure set 
down as one of the greatest enjoyments of my 
ature life. 



Your books have delighted me : Virgil, Dry 
den, and Tasso were all equally strangers to m« 
but of this more at large in my next. 

R.B. 



TO MR. JAMES SMITH, 

AVON PEINTPIEID, LINLITHGOW. 

[James Snath, as this letter intimates, had moved froa 
Mauchline to try to mend his fortunes at Avon Printfisld, 
near Linlithgow.] 

Mauchline, April 28, 1788. 

Bewaee of your Strasburgh, my good Sir! 
Look on this as the opening of a correspon- 
dence, like the opening of a twenty-four gun 
battery! 

There is no understanding a man properly, 
without knowing something of his previous 
ideas (that is to say, if the man has any ideas ; 
for I know many who, in the animal-muster, 
pass for men, that are the scanty masters of 
only one idea on any given subject, and by far 
the greatest part of your acquaintances and 
mine can barely boast of ideas, 1.25 — 1.5 — 1.75 
or some such fractional matter;) so to let you 
a little into the secrets of my pericranium, there 
is, you must know, a certain clean-limbed, 
handsome, bewitching young hussy of your ac- 
quaintance, to whom I have lately and pri- 
vately given a matrimonial title to my corpus. 

" Bode a robe and wear it, 
Bode a pock and bear it," 

says the wise old Scots adage ! I hate to pre- 
sage ill-luck ; and as my girl has been doubly 
kinder to me than even the best of women 
usually are to their partners of our sex, in 
similar circumstances, I reckon on twelve times 
a brace of children against I celebrate my 
twelfth wedding-day : these twenty-four will 
give me twenty-four gossipings, twenty-foui 
christenings (I mean one equal to twc), and I 
hope, by the blessing of the God of my fathers, 
to make them twenty-four dutiful children to 
their parents, twenty-four useful members of 
society, and twenty-four approved servants of 
their God ! * * * 

" Light's heartsome," quo' the wife when she 
was stealing sheep. You see what a lamp I 
have hung up to lighten your paths, when you 
are idle enough to explore the combinations aii4 



OF I^OBERT BUKNS. 



37 J 



relations of my ideas. 'Tis now as plain as a 
pike-stalf, -why a twenty-four gun battery was 
a metaphor I could readily employ. 

Now for business. — I intend to present Mrs. 
Burns with a printed shawl, an article of which 
I dare say you have variety : 'tis my first pre- 
sent to her since I have irrevocably called her 
mine, and I have a kind of whimsical wish to 
get her the first said present from an old and 
much-valued friend of hers and mine, a trusty 
Trojan, on whose friendship I count myself pos- 
sessed of as a life-rent lease. 

Look on this letter as a " beginning of sor- 
rows ;" I will write you till your eyes ache read- 
ing nonsense. 

Mrs. Burns ('tis only her private designation) 
beg? her ^est compliments to ydli. 

R. B. 



O PROFESSOR DUGALD STEWART. 

[Dugald Stewart loved the poet, admired his works, 
■nd enriched the biography of Currie with some genuine 
reminiscences of his earlier days.] 



Mauchline, Zd May, 1788. 



Sir, 



1 ENCLOSE you one or two more of my baga- 
telles. If the fervent wishes of honest grati- 
tude have any influence with that great unknown 
being who frames the chain of causes and events, 
prosperity and happiness will attend your visits 
to the continent, and return you safe to your 
native shore. 

Wherever I am, allow me, Sir, to claim it as 
my privilege to acquaint you with my progress 
in my trade of rhymes ; as I. am sure I could 
Bay it with trutn, tuat next to my little fame, 
and thp having it in my power to make life more 
t>orafortable to those whom nature has made 
iear tc me, I shall ever regard your counte- 
asnoe, your patronage, your friendly good 
.'ffiaeS; a' the most valued consequence of my 
late success in life. R. B. 



CXIX. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 



(A poeM, something alter the tashion of the Georgics, 
*a« Ion* p'eaent to the mind of Burns: had fortune 



been more friendly he might have, in due time, produce! 
it.] 

Mauchline, A.th May, 1788. 
Madam, 
Dryden's Virgil has delighted me. I do no! 
know whether the critics will agree with me 
but the Georgics are to me by far the best of 
Virgil, It is indeed a species of writing en 
tirely new to me ; and has filled my head witl 
a thousand fancies of emulation : but, alas '• 
when I read the Georgics, and then survey my 
own powers, 'tis like the idea of a Shetland 
pony, drawa up by the side of a thorough-bred 
hunter to start for the plate. I own I am dis 
appointed in the ^neid. Faultless correctness 
may please, and does highly please, the letterea 
critic : but to that awful character I have not 
the most distant pretensions. I do not know 
whether I do not hazard my pretensions to be 
a critic of any kind, when I say that I think 
Virgil, in many instances, a servile copier of 
Homer. If I had the Odyssey by me, I could 
parallel many passages where Virgil has evi 
dently copied, but by no moans improved. Ho 
mer. Nor can I think there 5s anything of this 
owing to the translators ; for, from everything 
I have seen of Dryden, I think him in genius 
and fluency of language. Pope's ?aaster. I havfl 
not perused Tasso enough to form an opinion • 
in some future letter, you shall have my idea<l 
of him; though I am conscious m_;^ criHcisma 
must be very inaccurate and imperfec*. a/" thera 
I have ever felt and lamented my want jf jiean» 
ing most. S,. B 



TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

[I have heard the gentleman say, to whom this >tvH 
letter is addressed, how much he was pleased wit»3 ta9 
intimation, that the poet had reunited himself w.tfa JS'M 
Armour, for he knew his heart was with her.] 

Mauchline, May 26, 1788. 
Mt peak Friend, 
I AM two kind letters in your debt, but I hav« 
been from home, and horribly busy, buying and 
preparing for my farming business, over and 
above the plague of my Excise instructions; 
which this week will finish. 

As I flatter my wishes that I foresee manj 
future years' correspondence between us, 'ti? 



S80 



GENEKAL CORRESPONDENCE 



foolish to talk of excusing dull epistles ; a dull 
letter may be a very kind one. I have the 
pleasure to tell you that I have been extremely 
fortuna:te in all my buyiugs, and bargainings 
tiitherto ; Mrs. Burns not excepted; which title 
I now avow to the world. I am truly pleased 
with this last affair : it has indeed added to my 
anxieties for futurity, but it has given a stabi- 
lity to my mind, and resolutions unknown be- 
fore ; and the poor girl has the most sacred 
enthufjiasm of attachment to me, and has not a 
wish but to gratify my every idea of her deport- 
ment. I am interrupted. — Farewell! my dear 
Str. R. B, 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

(This letter, on the hiring season, is well worth the 
consideration of all masters, and all servants. In Eng- 
land, servants are engaged by the month ; in Scotland by 
the half-year, and therefore less at the mercy of the 
changeable and capricious.] 

27th May, 1788. 
Madam, 

I HAVE been torturing my philosophy to no 
purpose, to account for that kind partiality of 
yours, which has followed me, in my return to 
the shade of life, with assiduous benevolence. 
Often did I regret, in the fleeting hours of my 
late will-o'-wisp appearance, that "here I had 
no continuing city ;" and but for the consolation 
of a few solid guineas, could almost lament the 
time that a momentary acquaintance with wealth 
and splendour put me so much out of conceit 
with the sworn companioEs of my road through 
life — insignificance and poverty. 

There are few circumstances relating to the 
unequal distribution of the good things of this 
life that give me more vexation (I mean in what 
I see around me) than the importance the 
cpulent bestow on their trifling family affairs, 
compared with the very same things on the con- 
tract(;d scale of a cottage. Last afternoon I had 
the honour to spend, an hour or two at a good 
Woman's fireside, where the planks that com- 
posed the floor were decorated with a splendid 
carpet, and the gay table sparkled with silver 
»nd china. 'Tis now about term-day, and there 
lias bee* a revolution among those creatures^ 



who though in appearanpe partakers, and eqnallj 
noble partakers, of the same nature with Ma- 
damie, are from time to time — their neives, 
their sinews, their health, strength, wisdom, 
experience, genius, time, nay a gocd part of 
their very thoughts — sold for months and years, 
not only to the necessities, the conveniencies, 
but, the caprices of the important few. W« 
talked of the insignificant creatures; nay, not- 
withstanding their general stupidity and ras- 
cality, did some of the poor devils the honour to 
commend them. But light be the turf upon hia 
breast who taught " Reverence thyself!" We 
looked down on the unpolished wretches, thei* 
impertinent wives and clouterly brats, as the 
lordly bull does on the little dirty ant-hill, whose 
puny inhabitants he crushes in the carelessnesa 
of his ramble, or tosses in the air in the wanton- 
ness of his pride. R. B. 



CXXII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP, 

AT MR. DUNLOP'S, HADDINGTON, 

[In this, the poet's first letter from Ellisland, he lay 
down his whole system of in-door and out-door economy 
while his wife took care of the household, he was to 
manage the farm, and " pen a stanza" during his hourg 
of leisure.] 

Ellisland, l^th June, 1788. 

"Where'er I roam, whatever realms I see, 
My heart, untravell'd, fondly turits to thee ; 
Still to my friend it turns with ceaseless pain. 
And drags at each remove a lengthening chain." 
Goldsmith. 

This is the second day, my honoured friend, 
that I have been on my farm. A solitary in- 
mate of an old smoky spense ; far from every 
object I love,- or by whom I am beloved; noi 
any acquaintance older than yesterday, except 
Jenny Geddes, the old mare I ride on; whilt 
uncouth cares and novel plans hourly insult mj 
awkward ignorance and bashful inexperience. 
There is a foggy atmosphere native to my soa£ 
in the hour of care; consequently the dreary 
objects seem larger than the life. Lxtreme 
sensibility, irritated and prejudiced on the 
gloomy side by a series of misfortunes and dis- 
appointments, at that period of my existence 
when the soul is laying in her cargo of ideas for 
the voyage of life, is, I.believo, the principal 
cause of this unhappy frame of mind. 



OF EGBERT BURNS 



381 



'Thfl valiant, in himself, what can he suffer? 
Or what need he regaid his single woes?" &c. 

Your surmise, Madam, is just ; I am indeed 
R husband. 

* * * * 

To leaTousy or infidelity I am an equal stran- 
ger. My preservative from tbe first is the most 
thorough consciousness of her sentiments of 
tionour, and her attachment to me : my antidote 
Bgftinst the last is my long and deep-rooted afFec- 
(don for her. 

In house-wife matters, of aptness to learn and 
activity to execute, she is eminently mistress ; 
and during my absence in Nithsdale, she is re- 
gularly and constantly apprentice to my mo- 
ther and sisters in their dairy and other rural 
business. 

The muses must not be ofiFended when I tell 
them, the concerns of my wife and family will, 
in my mind, always take the pas ; but I assure 
them their ladyships will ever come nest in 
place. 

Yoii are r'ght that a bachelor state would have 
Insured me more friends ; but, from a cause you 
will easily guess, conscious peace in the- enjoy- 
ment of my own mind, and unmistrusting con- 
fidence in approaching my God, would seldom 
have been of the number. 

I found a once much-loved and still much- 
loved female, literally and truly cast. out to the 
mercy of the naked elements ; but I enabled 
her to ]nirchase a shelter; — there is no sporting 
with a fellow-creature's happiness or misery. 

The most placid good-nature and sweetness 
of disposition ; a warm heart, gratefully de- 
voted with all its powers to love me ; vigorous 
health and sprightly cheerftilness, set off to the 
best advantage by a more than commonly hand- 
some figure ; these, I think, in a woman, may 
make a good wife, though she should never 
have read a page but the Scriptures of the Old 
wd New Testament, nor have danced in a 
brighter assembly than a penny pay-wedding. 

R. B. 



cxxm. 

TO EGBERT AINSLIE, ESQ. 

[Had B'JTns written his fine song, beginning " Con- 
tenled wi' little and cantie wi' mair, " when he penned 
thii letter, the prose might have followed as a note to 
^e -vtfrse he nails the Excise a luxury.] 



Mlislani, Jtme \ith, 1788. 

This is now the third day, my dearest Sir, 
that I have sojourned in these regions; and 
during these three days you have occupied more 
of my thoughts than in three weeks preceding ; 
in Ayrshire I have several variations of friend 
ship's compass, here it points invariably to the 
pole. My farm gives me a good many uncoutffl 
cares and anxieties, but I hate the language v 
complaint. Job, or some one of his fiienda 
says well — "why should a living man com 
plain ?■' 

I have lately been much mortified with con 
templating an unlucky imperfection in the very 
framing and construction of my soul ; namely, 
a blundering inaccuracy of her olfactory organs 
in hitting the scent of craft or design in my fel- 
low-creatures. I do not mean any compliment 
to my ingenuousness, or to hint that the defect 
is in consequence of the unsuspicious simplicity 
of conscious truth and honour : I take it to be, 
in some way or other, an imperfection in the 
mental sight; or, metaphor apart, some modi- 
fication of dulness. In two or three small in- 
stances lately, I have been most shamefully 
out. 

I have all along hitherto, in the warfare of 
life, been bred to arms among the light-horse — ■ 
the piquet-guards of fancy ; a kind of hussars 
and Highlanders of the brain ; but I am firmly 
resolved to sell out of these giddy battalions, 
who have no ideas of a battle but fighting the 
foe, or of a siege but storming the town. Cost 
what it will, I. am determined to buy in among 
the grave squadrons of heavy-armed thought, ol 
the artillery corps of plodding contrivance. 

What books are you reading, or what is the 
subject of youT- thoughts, besides the great stu- 
dies of your profession? You said something 
about religion in your la^st. I don't exactly re- 
member what it was, as the letter is in Ayr- 
shire ; but I thought it not only prettily saidj 
but nobly thought. You will make a noble fel- 
low if once you were married. I make no leser 
vation of your being well-married: you have so 
much sense, and knowledge of human nature, 
that thougb you may not realize perhaps the 
ideas of romance, yet you will never be ill-mar- 
ried. 

"Were it not for the terrors of my ticklish situ- 
ation respecting provision for a family of chil- 
dren, I am decidedly of opinion that tlie step ] 
have taken is vastly for my happiness. As it 18, 



882 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



I look to the Excise scheme as a certainty of 
maintenance ! — luxury to what either Mrs. Burns 
or I were born to. 

Adieu. 

E. B. 



CXXIV. 

TO If 9BERT AINSLIE, ESQ. 

[Tie kindness of Fieldj the profilist, has not only in- 
dulged me with a look at the original, from which the 
profile alluded to in the letter was taken, but has put me 
1 of a capital copy.] 



Mauchline, 2Sd June, 1788. 
This letter, my dear Sir, is only a business 
scrap. Mr. Miers, profile painter in your town, 
has executed a profile of Dr. Blacklock for me : 
do me the favour to call for it, and sit to him 
yourself for me, which put in the same size as 
the doctor's. The account of both profiles will 
be fifteen shillings, which I have given to James 
Connell, our Mauchline carrier, to pay you when 
you give him the parcel. You must not, my 
friend, refuse to sit. The time is short : when I 
eat to Mr. Miers, I am sure he did not exceed 
two minutes. I propose hanging Lord Glencairn, 
the Doctor, and you in trio over my new chim- 
ney-piece that is to be. 

Adieu. 

R. B. 



CXXV. 

TO ROBERT AINSLIE, ESQ. 

*■" There is a degree of folly," says Burns in this let- 
ter, " in talking unnecessarily of one's private affairs." 
The folly is scarcely less to write about them, and much 
did the pcet acd his friend write about their own private 
sffttirs a,-. T«ll as those of others.] 

Ellisland, June 30th, 1788. 
Ml DEAB Sib, 

i JUST now received your brief epistle ; and, 
to take vengeance on your laziness, I have, you 
me, takeu a long sheet of writing-paper, and 
have begun at the top of the page, intending to 
scribble on to the very last corner, 

I am vexed at that affair of the * * *, but 
dare not enlarge on the subject until you send 
ue your direction, as I suppose that will be al- 
tered on your late mast?r and friend's death. I 



am concerned for the old fellow's exit, only af 
I fear it may be to your disadvantage in any 
respect — for an old man's dying, except he hav 
been a very benevolent character, or in soma 
particular situation of life that the welfare 
of the poor, or the helpless depended on him, 
I think it an event of the most trifling moment 
in the world. Man is naturally a kind, benevo- 
lent animal, but he is dropped into such a needy 
situation here in this vexatious world, and has 
such a whoreson hungry, growling, multiplying 
pack of necessities, appetites, passions, and 
desires about him, ready to devour him for 
want of other food ; that in fact he must lay 
aside his cares for others that he may look pro- 
perly to himself. You have been imposed upon 
in paying Mr. Miers for the profile of a Mr. H. 
I did not mention it in my letter to you^ noi 
did I ever give Mr. Miers any such order. I 
have no objection to lose the money, but I will 
not have any such profile in my possession. 

I desired the carrier to pay you, but as I men 
tioned only fifteen shillings to him, I would ra- 
ther enclose you a guinea note. I have it not, 
indeed, to spare here, as I am only a sojourner 
in a strange land in this place ; but in a day or 
two I return to Mauchline, and there I have 
the bank-notes through the house like salt per- 
mits. 

There is a great degree of folly in talking un- 
necessarily of one's private affairs. I have just 
now been interrupted by one of my new neigh- 
bours, who has made himself absolutely con 
temptible in my eyes, by his silly garrulous pru 
riency. I know it has been a fault of my own, 
too ; but from this moment I abjure it, as I 
would the service of hell ! Your poets, spend 
thrifts, and other fools of that kidney, preteni 
forsooth to crack their jokes on prudence ; but 
'tis a squalid vagabond glorying in his rags 
Still, imprudence respecting money matters ia 
much more pardonable than imprudence respect- 
ing character. I have no objection to pref«r 
prodigality to avarice, in some few instances; 
but I appeal to your observation, if you have 
not met, and often met, with the same disingenu- 
ousness, the same hollow-hearted insincerity, 
and disintegritive depravity of principle, in the 
hackneyed victims of profusion, as in the un- 
feeling children of parsimony. I have every 
possible reverence for the much-talked-of world 
beyond the grave, and I wish that which piety 
believes, and virtue deserves, may be all mattei 
of fact. But in things belonging to, and ter« 



OF ROi/ERT BURNS. 



383 



minating ii this present aceiie of existence, man 
has serious and interesting business on hand. 
Whether a man shall shake hands with welcome 
in the distinguished elevaition of respect, or 
shrink from contempt in the abject corner of in- 
Bignificance ; whether he shall wanton under the 
txopic of plenty, at least enjoy himself in the 
eomfortable latitudes of easy convenience, or 
starve in the arctic circle of dreary poverty; 
whether he shall rise in the manly consciousness 
of a self-approving mind, or sink beneath a gall- 
ing load of regret and remorse — these are alter- 
natives of the last moment. 

You see how I preach. You used occasion- 
ally to sermonize too ; I wish you would, in 
charity, favour me with a sheet full in your 
own way. I admire the close of a letter Lord 
Bolingbroke writes to Dean Swift: — "Adieu 
dear Swift ! with all thy faults I love thee en- 
tirely : make an effort to Ion e me with all 
mine !" Humble servant, and all that trumpery, 
is now such a prostituted busimess, that honest 
friendship, in her sincere way, must have re- 
course to her primitive, simple, — farewell ! 

R. B. 



CXXVI. 
TO MR. GEORGE LOCKHART, 

MERCHANT, GLASGOW. 

[Burns, more than any poet of the age, loved to 
write out copies of his favourite poems, and present them 
to his fridnds : he sent " The Falls of Bruar" to Mr. 
Lookhart."] 

Mauchline, 18th July, 1788, 
Mt dear Sir, 

I AM just going for Nithsdale, else I would 
c«»rlaiii!.7 have transcribed some of my rhyming 
kkjngs f* you. The Miss Baillies I have seen 
Id Edinburgh. " Fair and lovely are thy works. 
Lord God Almighty! Who would not praise 
th** for these thy gifts in thy goodness to the 
80K.3 of men !" It needed not your fine taste to 
ftdmire them. I declare, one day I had the 
honour of dining at Mr. Baillie's, I was almost 
In the predicament of the children of Israel, 
when they could not look on Moses' face for the 
flory that shone in it when he descended from 
Mount Sinai. 

I did once write a i»oetic address from the 
Palls of Bruar to his Grace of Athole, irhen I 



was in the Highlands. When you return to 
Scotland, let me know, and I will send such of 
my pieces as please myself best. I return ta 
Mauchline in about ten days. 

My compliments to Mr. Purdon. I am ia 
truth, but at present in haste. 

Yours.— R B. 



TO MR. PETER HILL. 

[Peter Hill was a bookseller in Edir.burgh : David Raac 
say, printer of the Evening Conrant : William Dunbar, 
an advocate, and president of a club of Edinburgh witg' 
and Alexander Cunningham, a jeweller, who loved mirth 
and wine .] 

Mt dear Hill, 

I SHALL say nothing to your mad present — 
you have so long and often been of important 
service to me, and I suppose you mean to go on 
conferring obligations until I shall not be able 
to lift up my face before you. In the mean 
time, as Sir Roger de Coverley, because it hap- 
pened to be a cold day in which he made hia 
will, ordered his servants great coats for mourn- 
ing, so, because I have been this week plagued 
with an indigestion, I have sent you by the 
carrier a fine old ewe-milk cheese. 

Indigestion is the devil: nay, 'tis the devil 
and all. It besets a nan in every one of hia 
senses. I lose my appetite at the sight of suc- 
cessful knavery, and sicken to loathing at the 
noise and nonsense of self-important folly. 
When the hollow-hearted wretch takes me by 
the hand, the feeling spoils my dinner : the 
proud man's wine so offends my palate that it 
chokes me in the gullet; and the pulvilised, 
feathered, pert coxcomb is so disgustful n my 
nostril that my stomach turns 

If ever you have any of these disagreeable 
sensations, let me prescribe for you patience 
and a bit of my cheese. I know that you arg 
no niggard of your good things among yom 
friends, and some of them are in much need of 
a slice. There, in my eye is our friend Smel- 
lie ; a man positively of the first abilities and 
greatest strength of mind, as well as one of 
the best hearts and keenest wits that I have 
ever met with ; when you see him, as, alag' he 
too is smarting at the pinch of distressful cir- 
cumstances, aggravated by the sneer of coni&- 
melioua greatness — a bit of my cheese aJone fnSA 



not cure him, but if you add a tankard of brown 
Btout, and superadd a magnum of right Oporto, 
you will see his sorrows vanish like the morning 
mist before the summer sun. 

Candlish, the earliest friend, except my only 
Drother, that I have on earth, and one of the 
worthiest fellows that ever any man called by 
the name of friend, if a luncheon of my cheese 
would help to rid him of some fcf his super- 
abundant modesty, you would do well to give it 
aim. 

David,' with his Courant, comes, too, across 
my recollection, and I beg you will help him 
largely from the said ewe-milk cheese, to enable 
him to digest those bedaubing paragraphs with 
which he is eternally larding the lean characters 
of certain great men in a certain great town. I 
grant you the periods are very well turned ; so, 
a fresh egg is a very good thing, but when thrown 
at a man in a pillory, it does not at all improve 
his figure, not to mention the irreparable loss 
of the egg. 

My facetious friend Dunbar I would wish also 
to be a partaker : not to digest his spleen, for 
that he laughs off, but to digest his last night's 
wine at the last field-day of the Crochallan 
corps.2 

Among our common friends I must not forget 
one of the dearest of them — Cunningham. The 
brutality, insolence, and selfishness of a world 
unworthy of having such a fellow as he is in it, 
I know sticks in his stomach, and if you can help 
him to anything that will make him a little easier 
on that score, it will be very obliging. 

As to honest J S e, he is such a 

contented, happy man, that I know not what 
can annoy him, except, perhaps, he may not 
have got the better of a parcel of modest anec- 
dotes which a certain poet gave him one night at 
supper, the last time the said poet was in town. 

Though I have mentioned so many men of law, 
1 shall have nothing to do with them professedly 
— the faculty are beyond my prescription. As 
to their clients, that is another thing; God knows 
they have much to digest ! 

The clergy I pass by; their profundity of 
eruiition, and their liberality of sentiment; 
their total want of pride, and their detestation 
of hyijocrisy, are so proverbially notorious as 
to place them far, far above either my praise or 
oeusure. 

* Printe- of the Edinburgh Evening Courant, 
« K cluiJ of choice spirits. 



I was going to mention a man of worth whom 
I have the honour to call friend, the Laird of 
Craigdarroch ; but I have spoken to the landlord 
01 the King's- Arms inn here, to have at the next 
county meeting a large ewe-milk cheese on the 
table, for the benefit of the Dumfries-shire Wldgw, 
to enable them to digest the Duke of Quet.ns- 
berry's late political conduct. 

I have just this moment an opportunity of a 
private hand to Edinburgh, as perhaps you would 
not digest double postage. R. B. 



cxxvni. 

TO ROBEET GRAHAM, ESQ., 

OF FINTKAT. 

[The filial and fraternal claims alluded to in this letter 
were satisfied with about three hundred pounds, two hun- 
dred of which went to his brother Gilbert — a sum wliich 
made a sad inroad on the money arising from the i3'3cond> 
edition of hig Poems.] 

SiK, 

When I had the honour of being introduced 
to you at Athole-house, I did not think so soon 
of asking a favour of you. Wten Lear, in 
Shakspeare, asked Old Kent why he wished to 
be in his service, he answers, "Because you 
have that in your face which I would fain call 
master." For some such reason. Sir, do I now 
solicit your patronage. You know, I dare say, 
of an application I lately made to your Board to 
be admitted an officer of Excise. I have, ac- 
cording to form, been examined by a supervisor, 
and to-day I gave in his certificate, with a re- 
quest for an order for instructions. In this 
affair, if I succeed, I am afraid I shall but too 
much need a patronizing friend. Propriety of 
conduct as a man, and fidelity and attention as 
an officer, I dare engage for; but with anything 
like business, except manual labourj I am to- 
tally unacquainted. 

I had intended to have closed my late appear-' 
ance on the stage of life, in the character of a 
country- farmer; but after discharging some 
filial and fraternal claims, I find I could only 
fight for existence in that miserable manner, 
which I have lived to see throw a venerable 
parent into the jaws of a jail, whence death, 
the poor m jn's last and often best friend, rescued 



OF ROBERT BURNS 



S8b 



I know, Sir, that to need your goodness, is to 
have a claim on it ; may I, therefore, beg your 
patronage to forward me in this affair, till I be 
appointed to a division ; -where, by the help of 
rigid economy, I will try to support that inde- 
pendence so dii&r to my soul, but which has been 
too often so distant from my situation. • 

E. B. 



TO WILLIAM CRUIKSHANK. 

[ The verses which this letter conveyed to Cruikshank 
(vere the lines written in Fri-ars-Carse Hermitage : " the 
Srst-fniits," says the poet, elsewhere, " of my intar- 
..ourse with the Nithsdale muse."! 

Ellisland, August, 1788. 
I HAVE not room, my dear friend, to answer 
all the particulars of your last kind letter. I 
shall be in Edinburgh on some business very 
soon ; and as I shall be two days, or perhaps 
three, in town, we shall discuss matters viva 
voce. My knee, I believe, will never be entirely 
well ; and an unlucky fall this winter has made 
•t still worse. I well remember the circum- 
stance you allude to, respecting Creech's opinion 
of Mr. Nicol ; but, as the first gentleman owes 
me still about fifty pounds, I dare not meddle 
in the affair. 

It gave me a very heavy heart to read such 
accounts of the consequence of your quarrel 
with that puritanic, rotten-hearted, hell-com- 
missioned scoundrel A . If, notwith- 
standing your unprecedented industry in public, 
and your irreproachable conduct in private 
life, he dtill has you so much in his power, what 
ruin mov he not bring on some others I could 
name ? 

Many and happy returns of seasons to you, 
with your dearest and worthiest friend, and the 
lovely little pledge of your happy union. May 
the great Author of life, and of every enjoyment 
that can render life delightful, make her that 
•jomfortable blessing to you both, which you so 
ardently wish for, and which, allow me to say, 
you so well deserv* ! Glance over the foregoing 
rerses, and let me have your blots. 

Adieu. 

R. B. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

[The lines on the Hermitage were presented by ths 
poet to several of his friends, and Mrs. Dunlop- w«« 
among the number.] 

Mauchline, August 2, 1788. 
HoNOUKED Madam, 
Your kind letter welcomed me, yesternight, 
to Ayrshire. I am, indeed, seriously angry 
with you at the quantum of your luckpenny; 
but, vexed and hurt as I was, I could not help 
laughing very heartily at the noble lord's apo- 
logy for the missed napkin. 

. I would write you from Nithsdale, and give 
you my direction there, but I have scarce an 
opportunity of calling at a post-office once in a 
fortnight. I am six miles ^rom Dumfries, am 
scarcely ever in it myseif, and, as yet, have 
little acquaintance in the neighbourhood. Be- 
sides, I am now very busy on my farm, building 
a dwelling-house ; as at present I am almost an 
evangelical man in Nithsdale, for I have scarce 
"where to lay my head." 

There are some passages in your last that 
brought tears in my eyes. " The heart knoweth 
its own sorrows, and a stranger intermeddleth 
not therewith." The lepository of these "sor 
rows of the heart" is a kind of sanctum sanetO' 
rum: and 'tis only a chosen friend, and th&», 
too, at particular sacred times, who dares enter 
into them : — 

" Heaven oft tears the bosom-chord? 
That nature finest strung." 

You will excuse this qui^tation lor the saKe 
of th^author. Instead of entering on this sub 
ject farther, I shall transcribe you a few linet 
I wrote in a hermitage, belonging to a gentle 
man in my Nithsdale neighbourhood. They 
are almost the only favours the muses have coD" 
ferred on me in that country : — 

Thou whom chance may hither lead.' 

^ Since I am in the way of transcribing, ine 
following were the production of yesterday as 
I jogged through the wild hills pf New Cum- 
nock. I intend inserting them, or something 
like them, in an epistle I am going to write to 
the gentleman on whose friendship my Excise 
hopes depend, Mr. Graham, of Fintray, one of 



See Poems LXXXIX aaJ XC 



SS6 



GENEKAL GORKESPONDEKCE 



the worthiest and most*iccoraplished gentlemen 
not only of this country, ^ut, I will dare to say 
it, of this age. The following are just the first 
crude thoughts " unhousel'd, unanointed, unan- 
nesil'd :" — 



Pity the tuneful muses' helpless train ; 
Weak, timid landsmen on life's stormy main: 
The world were blest, did bliss on them depend; 
Ah, that "the friendly e'er should want a 

friend !" ^ 

The little fate bestows they share as soon; 
Unlike sage, proverb'd, wisdom's hard-wrung 

boon. 
Let Prudence number o'er each sturdy son, 
Who life and wisdom at one race begun ; 
Who feel by reason and who give by rule ; 
Instinct's a brute and sentiment a fool! 
Who mak« poor will do wait upon I should; 
We own they're prudent, but who owns they're 

good? 

Te wise ones, hence ! "ye hurt the social eye ; 
Qod's image rudely etch'd on base alloy ! 
But come ****** 

Here the muse left me. I am astonished at 
what yon tell me of Anthony's writing me. I 
never received it. Poor fellow! you vex me 
much by telling me that he is unfortunate. I 
ehall be in Ayrshire ten days from this date. I 
have just room for an old Pioman farewell. 

R. B. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

[This .etter has been o" en cited, and very proper y, ss 
fc proof of thr strong attachment of Burns to ons who 
WBB in meny respects, worthy.] 

MauchUnf, August 10, 1788. 
Mi much honofbed Friend, 

YouBs of the 24th June is before-me. I found 
It, as Wv3ll as another valued friend — my wife, 
waiting to welcome me to Ayrshire: I met both 
with the sincerest pleasure. 

When I write you. Madam, I do not sit down 
to answer every paragraph of yours, by echoing 
every sentiment, like the faithful Commons' of 
Great Britain in Parliament assembled, an- 
swering a Bj eech from the best of kings ! I ex- 



press myself in the fulness of my heart, and 
may, perhaps, be guilty of neglecting some of 
your kind inquiries ; but not from your very 
old reason, that I do not read your letters. All 
your epistles for several months have cost rae 
nothing, except a swelling throb of gratitude, 
or a deep-felt sentiment of veneration. 

When Mrs. Burns, Madam, first found her- 
self " as women wish to be who love their 
lords," as I loved her nearly to distraction, we 
took steps for a private marriage. Her parents 
got the hint ; and not only forbade me her com- 
pany and their house, but, on my rumoured 
West Indian voyage," got a warrant to put me 
in jail, till I should find security in my about- 
to-be paternal relation. You know my lucky 
reverse of fortune. On my eclatant return to 
Mauchline, I was made very welcome to visit 
my girl. The usual consequences began to be- 
tray her ; and, as I was at that time laid up a 
cripple in Edinburgh, she was turned, literally 
turned out of doors, and I wrote to a friend to 
shelter her till my return, when our marriage 
was declared. Her happiness or misery were 
in my hands, and who could trifle with snch a 
deposit ? 

I can easily fancy a more agreeable compa- 
nion for my journey of life ; but, upon my 
honour, I have never seen the individual in- 
stance. 

Circumstanced as I am, I could never have 
got a female partner for life, who could have 
entered into my favourite studies, relished my 
favourite authors, &c., without probably entail- 
ing on me at the same time expensive living, 
fantastic caprice, perhaps apish affectation, with 
all the other blessed boarding-school acquire- 
ments, which [pardonnez moi, 3Iadame.^ are 
sometimes to be found among females of the 
upper ranks, but almost universally pervade the 
misses of the would-be gentry. 

I like your way in your church-yard lucubra- 
tions. Thoughts that are the spontaneous re»uU 
of accidental situations, either respecting health, 
place, or company, have often a strength, and 
always an originality, that would in vain be 
looked for in fancied circumstances and studied 
paragraphs. For me, I havg often thought of 
keeping a letter, in progression by me, to send 
you when the sheet was written out. Now 1 
talk of sheets, I must tell you, my reason for 
writing to you on paper of this kind is my pru- 
riency of writing to you at large. A page of 
post is on such a dissocial, narrow-minded scaler 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



88] 



Jia< I cannot abide it; and double letters, at 
least in my miscellaneous revery manner, are a 
monstrons tax in a close correspondence. 

R. B. 



CXXXII. 

. TO MRS. DUNLOF. 

[Mrs MiiJer, of Dalswinton, was a lady of beauty and 
teltnt : she wrote verses with skill and taste. Her maiden 
uame was Jean Lindsay.] 

JEUisland, 16th August, 1788. 
I AM in a fine disposition, my honoured friend, 
to send you an elegiac epistle ; and 'want only 
genius to make it quite Shenstonian: — * 

" Why droops my heart with fancied woes forlorn ? 
Why sinks my soul, beneath each wintry sky?" 

My increasing cares in this, as yet strange 
oou.icry - gloomy conjectures in the dark vista 
of futm-ity — consciousness of my own inability 
for the struggle of the world — my broadened 
mark to misfortune in a wife and children ; — I 
could indulge these reflections till my humour 
should ferment into the most acid chagrin, that 
would corrode the very thread of life. 

To counterwork these baneful feelings, I have 
sat down to write to you; as I declare upon 
my soul I always find that the most sovereign 
balm for my wounded spirit. 

I was yesterday ?t Mr. Miller's to dinner for 
the first time. Mv r<tfception was, quite to my 
mind: from th(> Ipdy of the house quite flatter- 
ing. She someti'Aes hits on a couplet or two, 
impromptu. She repeated one or two to the ad- 
miration of all present. My suffrage as a pro- 
fessional man, was expected : I for once went 
agonizing over the belly of my conscience. "P«t- 
don me, ye my adored household gods, inde- 
pendence of spirit, and integrity of soul ! In the 
course of conversation, ".Johnson's Musical 
Museum," a collection of Scottish songs with 
the music, was talked of. We got a song on 
the harpsichord, beginning, 

" Raving winds awmd her blowing." I 
The air was much admired: the lady of the 
house asked me whose were the words. " Mine, 
Madam — they are indeed my very best verses;" 
«he took not the sriallest notice of them ! The 
»ld Scottish prr.vevb says well, " king's caff is 



f «eSi:)ng LII. 



bett-er than ither folks' corn." I was going t« 
make a New Testament quotation about " cast 
ing pearls" but that would be too virulent, foi 
the lady is actually a woman of sense and 
taste. 

After all that has been said on the other side 
of the question, man is by no means a happy 
creature. I do not speak of the selected few, 
favoured by partial heaven, whose souls ara 
tuned to gladness amid riches and honours, and 
prudence and wisdom. I speak of the neglected 
many, whose nerves, whose sinews, whose days 
are sold to the minions of fortune. 

If I thought you had never seen it, I would 
transcribe for you a stanza of an old Scottish 
ballad, called, "The Life and Age of Man;" 
beginning thus : 

" 'Twas in the sixteenth hunder year 
Of God and fifty-three, 
Frae Christ was born, that bought us dear, 
As writings testifie." 

I had an old grand-uncle, with whom my mo- 
ther lived awhile in her girlish years ; the good 
old man, for such he was, was long blind ere he 
died, during which time his highest enjoyment 
was to sit down and cry, while my mother would 
sing the simple old song of "the Life and Age 
of Man." 

It is this way of thinking ; it is these melan- 
choly truths, that make religion so precious to 
the poor, miserable children of men. — If it is a 
mere phantom, existing only in the heated ima 
gination of enthusiasm, 

" What truth on earth so precious as a lie." 

My idle reasonings sometimes make me a 
little sceptical, but the necessities of my heart 
always give the cold philosophisings the 'ie. 
Who looks for the heart weaned from earth ; 
the soul affianced to her God ; the correspond- 
ence fixed with heaven ; the pious supplication 
and devout thanksgiving, constant as the vicis- 
situdes of even and morn ; who thinks to meet 
with these in the court, the palace, in the glare 
of public life ? No : to find them in their pre- 
cious importance and divine efficacy, we must 
search among the obscure recesses of disappoint- 
ment, affliction, poverty, and distress. 

I am sure, dear Madam, you are now moxe 
than pleased with the length of my letters. 1 
return to Ayrshire middle of next week : and it 
quickens my pace to think that there will 
be a letter from you waiting me there. 1 
must be here again very soon for my harvest. 

R. B. 



888 



GENERAL COERESPONUENCB 



TO MR. BEUGO, 

ENORAVEE, EDINBUKGH. 

•■Ml. Beugo was a weli-kr )wn engraver in Edinburgh : 
b« engraved Nasw-^h's port.iit of Burns, for Creech's 
Irit edition of his i'aems ; and as he could draw a little, 
?a inaoroved, as ha called it, the engraving from sittings 
jf the poet, d.vA made it a little more like, and a little 
lent poetic] 

ElUsland, 9th Sept. 1788. 
Mt dear Sir, 
There is not in Edinburgh above the number 
of the graces whose letters would have given me 
so much pleasure as yours of the 8d instant, 
which only reached me yesternight. 

I am here on the farm, busy with my harvest ; 
but for all that most pleasurable part of life 
Balled SOCIAL communication, I am here at the 
very elbow of existence. The only things that 
are to be found in this country, in any degree 
of perfection, are stupidity and canting. Prose 
they only know in graces, prayers, &c., and the 
value of these they estimate as they do their 
plaiding webs — by the ell! As for the muses, 
tJiey have as much an idea of a rhinoceros as 
of a poet. For my old capricious but good- 
natured huzzy of a muse — 

" By banks of Nith I sat and wept 

When Coila I thought on. 
In midst thereof I hung my harp 
The willow-trees upon." 
I am generally about half my time in Ayrshire 
with my " darling Jean," and then I, at lucid 
intervals, throw my horny fist across my becob- 
webbed lyre, much in the same manner as an 
old wife throws her hand across the spokes of 
her spinning-wheel. 

I will send you the " Fortunate Shepherdess" 
as soon as I return to Ayrshire, for there I keep 
it with other precious treasure. I shall send 
it by a careful hatid, as I would not for any- 
thing It should be mislaid or lost. I do not 
wish to serve you from any benevolence, or 
other grave Christian virtue ; 'tis purely a sel- 
fish gratification of my own feelings whenever I 
think of you. 

If your better functions would give you lei- 
Bure to write me, I should be extremely happy; 
that is to say if you neither keep nor look for 
a regular correspondence. I hate he idea of 
being obliged to write a letter. I sometimes 
write a friend twice a week, at othei times once 
a quarter. 



I am exceedingly pleased with your fancy il 
makii:g the author you mention place a map of 
Iceland instead of his portrait before his works 
'twas a glorious idea. 

Could you conveniently do me one thing?— < 
whenever you finish any head I should like to 
have a proof copy of it. I might tell you a 
long story about your fine genius; but as what 
everybody knows cannot have escaped you, I 
shall not say one syllable about it. 

R. B. 



CXXXIV. 

TO MISS CHALMERS, 

EDINBURGH. 

% 

[To this iine letter all the biographers of Bnrna ar« 
largely indebted.] 

ElUsland, near Dumfries, Sept. IQth, 1788. 
Where are you? and how are you? and is 
Lady Mackenzie recovering her health ? for I 
have had but one solitary letter from you. I 
will not think you have forgot me, Madam ; an<3 
for my part — 

" When thee, Jerusalem, I forget, 
Skill part from my right hand "' 

" My heart is not of that rock, nor my soul 
careless as that sea." I do not make my pro- 
gress among mankind as a bowl does among its 
fellows — rolling through the crowd without bear- 
ing away any mark of impression, except where 
they hit in hostile collision. 

I am here, driven in with my harvest-folk? 
by bad weather ; and as you and your sister 
once did me the honour of interesting your- 
selves much cl Vegard de moi, T sit down to beg 
the continuation of your goodness. I can truly 
say that, all the exterior of life apart, I never 
saw two, whose esteem flattered the nobler feel- 
ings of my soul — I will not say more, but so 
much as Lady Mackenzie and Miss Chalmers. 
When I think of you — hearts the best, minia 
the noblest of human kind — unfortunate even 
in the shades of life — when I think I have met 
with you, and have lived more of real life with 
you in eight days than I can do with almost any 
body I meet with in eight years — when I think 
on the improbability of meeting you in this 
world again — I could sit down and cry like a 
child! If ever you honoured me with a place 
in your esteem, I trust I can now plead more 



OF ROBEET BURINS. 



3HVJ 



iesert. I am secure against that crushing grip 
at iron poverty, .which, alas ! is less or more 
fatal to the native worth and purity of, I fear, 
the noblest souls; and a late important step in 
my life hiis kindly taken me out of the way of 
those ungrateful iniquities, which, however over- 
looked in fashionable license, or varnished in 
fashioE'ible phrase, are indeed but lighter and 
deeper shades of villant. 

Shortly after my last return to Ayrshire, I 
married " my Jean." This was not in conse- 
quence of the attachment of romance, perhaps ; 
but I had a long and much-loved fellow-crea- 
ture's happiness or misery in my determina- 
lon, and I durst not trifle with so important a 
ieposit. Nor have I any cause to repent it. If 
( hnve not got polite tattle, modish manners, 
ind fashionable dress, I am not sickened and 
dsgusted with the multiform curse of board- 
tog-school affectation : and I have got thehand- 
lomest figure, the sweetest temper, the soundest 
jonstitution, and the kindest heart in the county. 
Mrs. Burns believes, as firmly as her creed, that 
[ am le plus bel esprit, et le plus honntte homme in 
the universe ; although she scarcely ever in her 
life, except the Scriptures of the Old and New 
Testament, and the Psalms of David in metre, 
spent five minutes together either on prose or 
(Terse. I must except also from this last a cer- 
tain late publication of Scots poems, which she 
has perused very devoutly ; and all the ballads 
m the country, as she has (0 the partial lover ! 
70U will cry) the finest " wood-note wild" I 
ever heard. I am the more particular in this 
lady's character, as I know she will henceforth 
Lave the honour of a share in your best wishes. 
Bhe is still at Mauchline, as I am building my 
house ; for this hovel that I shelter in, while 
occasionally here, is pervious to every blast that 
blows, and every shower that falls ; and I am 
only preserved from being chilled to death by 
being sufl'ocated with smoke. I do not find my 
farm that pennyworth I was taught to expect, 
but I believe, in time, it may be a saving bar- 
gain. You will be pleased to hear that I have 
laid aside idle eclat, and bind every day after 
my reapers. 

To save me from that horrid situation of at 
any time going down in a losing bargain of a 
farm, to misery, I have taken my Excise in- 
structions, and - have my commission in my 
J)ocket for any emergency of fortune. If I 
»ould set all before your view, whatever disre- 
i^iect you, in common with the world, have for 



this business, I know you would approve of mj 
idea. 

I will make no ap Dlogy, dear Madam, for thi| 
egotistic detail; I know you and your sistei 
will be interested in every circumstance of it. 
What signify the silly, idle gewgaws of wealth, 
or the ideal trumpery of greatness ! When fei- 
low-partakers of the same nature fear the samo 
God, have the same benevolence of heart, the 
same nobleness of soul, the same d«testatiou ai 
everything dishonest, and the same scorn at 
everj'thing unworthy — if they are not in the 
dependence of absolute beggary, in the name 
of common sense are they not equals ? And if 
the bias, the instinctive bias, of their souls run 
the same way, why may they not be friends ? 

When I may have an opportunity of sending 
you this. Heaven only knows. Shenstone says, 
" When one is confined idle within doors by bad 
weather, the best antidote against ennui is to 
read the letters of or write to, one's friends ;" in 
that case then, if the weather continues thus, 
I may scrawl you half a quire. 

I very lately — to wit, since harvest began — 
wrote a poem, not in imitation, but in the man- 
ner, of Pope's Moral Epistles. It is only a short 
essay, just to try the strength of my muse's 
pinion in that way. I will send you a copy of 
it, when once I have heard from you. I have 
likewise been laying the foundation of some 
pretty large poetic works : how the superstruc 
ture will come on, I leave to that great maker 
and marrer of projects — time. Johnson's col- 
lection of Scots songs is going on in the third 
volume; and, of consequence, finds me a con- 
sumpt for a gr^at deal of idle metre. One of 
the most tolerable things I have done in that 
way is two stanzas I made to an air, a musical 
gentleman of my acquaintance composed for 
the anniversary of his wedding-day, which hap- 
pens on the seventh of November. Take it as 
follows : — 

" The day returns — my bosom burns, 
The blissful day we twa did meet," &c.' 

I shall give over this letter for shame. If 1 
should be seized with a scribbling fit, before 
this goes away, I shall make it another letter* 
and then you may allow your patience a week's 
respite between the two. I have not room fof 
■more than the old, kind, heasrty farewell. 



Song LXIX. 



39C 



GENEEAL CORKESPONDENCE 



To make some amends, mes chhres Mesdames, 
for dragging you on to this second sheet, and 
to relieve a little the tiresomeness of my unstu- 
died and uncorrectiWe prose, I shall transcribe 
you some of my late poetic bagatelles ; though 
I have, these eight or ten months, done very 
little that way. One day in a hermitage on 
the banks of Nith, belonging to a gentleman in 
my neighbourhood, who is so good as give me a 
key at pleasure, I wrote as follows , supposing 
myself the sequestered, venerable inhabitant of 
th? lonely mansion. 

LINES WRITTEN IN FRI A U S-C AK S E 
HERMITAGE. 

" Thou whom chance may hither lead, 
Be thou clad in russet weed."* 

R. B. 



TO MR. MORISOl 



MAUCHLINE. 



[Monson, of Mauchline, made most of the poet's fur- 
niture, for ElHsland : from Mauchline, too, came that 
eight-day clock, which was sold, at the death of the 
poet's widow, for thirty-eight pounds, to one who would 
have paid one hundred, sooner than wanted it.] 

Ellisland, September 22, 1788. 
My dear Sir, 
Necessity obliges me to go into my new house 
even before it be plastered. I will inhabit the 
one end until the other is finished. About three 
weeks more, I think, will at farthest be my time, 
beyond which I cannot stay in this present house. 
If ever you wished to deserve the blessing of him 
that was ready to perish ; if ever you were in 
a situation that a little kindness would have res- 
cued you from many evils ; if ever you hope to 
find rest in future states of untried being — get 
khese matters of mine ready. My servant will 
lie out in the beginning of next week for the 
llock. My compliments to Mrs. Morison. 
I am, 

After all my tribulation. 

Dear Sir, yours, 
R. B. 



Po« US LXXXIX. and XC. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP, 

OF DUNLOP. 

[Burns had no great respect for critics who found blB 
mishes without perceiving beauties: he expresses hf 
contempt for such in this letter.] 

Mauchline, 21th Sept. 1788. 

I HAVE received twins, dear Madam, mort 
than once ; but scarcely ever with more pleasur< 
than when I received yours of the 12th instanv 
To make myself understood ; I had wrote to Mr, 
Graham, enclosing my poem addressed to him, 
and the same post which favoured me with 
yours brought me an answer from him. It was 
dated the very day he had received mine ; and I 
am quite at a loss to say whether it was most 
polite or kind. 

Your criticisms, my honoured benefactress, 
are truly the work of a friend. They are not 
the blasting depre.da,tions of a canker-toothed, 
caterpillar critic ; nor are they the fair state- 
ment of cold impartiality, balancing with un- 
feeling exactitude the pro and con of an author's 
merits ; they are the judicious observations of 
animated friendship, selecting the beauties of 
the piece. I have just arrived from Nithsdale, 
and will be here a fortnight. I was on horse- 
back this morning by three o'clock ; for between 
my wife and my farm is just forty-six miles. 
As I jogged on in the dark, I was taken with a 
poetic fit as follows : 

" Mrs. Ferguson of Craigdarroch's lamenta- 
tion for the death of her son ; an uncommonly 
promising youth of eighteen or nineteen years 
of age." 

" Fate gave the word— the arrow sped, 
And pierced my darling's heart. "^ 

You will not send me your poetic rambles, but, 
you see I am no niggard of mine. I am sura 
your impromptus give me double pleasure; what 
falls from your pen can neither be unentertain 
ing in itself, nor indiiferent to me. 

The one fault you found, is just; but I cannoH 
please myself in an emendation. 

What a life of solicitude is the life of a parent 1 
You interested me much in your young couple 

I would not take my folio paper for this epis- 
tle, and now I repent it. I am so jaded with 
my dirty long journey that 1 was afraid t« 
drawl into the essence of duluess with any 



2 Poem XCII. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



39^ 



thing larger than a quarto, and so I must leave 
out another rhyme of this morning's manufac- 

Iture. 
1 will pay the sapientipotent George, most 
BheerfuUyj to hear from you ere I leave Ayr- 
shire, R. B. 



TO MR. PETEJ, HILL. 

[" The ' Address to Lochlomond,' which this letter 
Citicises," saysCurrie in 1800, " was Virrittenhy a gentle- 
man, now one of the masters of the High-school of Edin- 
L argh, and the same who translated the beautiful story 
ff I The Paria,' published in the Bee of Dr. Anderson."] 

Mauchline, 1st October, 1788. 
1 HAVE been here in this country about three 
days, and all that time my chief reading has 
been the "Address to Lochlomond" you were 
Bo obliging as to send to me. Were I impan- 
nelled one of the author's jury, to determine 
his criminality respecting the sin of poesy, my 
verdict should be " guilty ! a poet of nature's 
making!" It is an excellent method for im- 
provement, and what I believe every poet does, 
to place some favourite classic author in his own 
walks of study and composition, before him as 
a model. Though your author had not men- 
tioned the name, I could have, at half a glance, 
guessed his model to be Thomson. Will my 
brother-poet forgive me, if I venture to hint 
that his im**ation of that immortal bard is in 
two or three places rather more servile than 
Buch a genius as his required : — e. g. 

" To soothe the maddening passions all to peace." 
Address. 

" To soothe the throbbing passions into peace." 

Thomson. 

I think the "Address" is in simplicity, har- 
mony, and elegance of versification, fully equal 
to the " Seasons." Like Thomson, too, he has 
looked into nature for himself: you meet with 
no copied description. One particular criticism 
1 made at first reading ; in no one instance has 
he said too much. He never flags in his pro- 
gress, but, like a true poet of nature's making 
kindles in his course. His beginning is simple 
and modest, as if distrustful of the strength of 
his pinion ; only, I do not altogether like — 

" Truth, 

The soul of every sor.g that's nobly great." 

Fiction is the soul of many a song that is 
%obly great. Perhaps I am wrong : this may 



be but a prose criticism. Is not the phrase, ic 
line 7, page 6, " Great lake," too much vnlgai"' 
ized by every-day language for so sublime a 
poem? 

" Great mass of waters, theme for nobler song," 
is perhaps no emendation. Ilis enumeiatioj 
of a comparison with other lakes is at ouo€ har 
monious and poetic. Every reader's ideaa m.\i%\ 
sweep the 

"Winding margin of -jn hundred miles." 
The perspective that follows mountains blue 
— the imprisoned billows beating in vain — the 
wooded isles — the digression- on the yew-tree— 
" Ben-lomond's lofty, cloud-envelop'dhead," &c. 
are beautiful. A thunder-storm is a subject 
which has been often tried, yet our poet in his 
grand picture has interjected a circumstance 
so far as I know, entirely original : — 



-"the gloom 



Deep seam'd with frequent streaks of moving fire.'* 
In his preface to the Storm, "the glens how 
dark between," is noble highland landscape! 
The "rain ploughing the red mould," too, ia 
beautifully fancied. "Ben-lomond's lofty, path- 
less top," is a good expression ; and the sur 
rounding view from it is truly great : tha 

— — " silver mist, 

Beneath the beaming sun," 

is well described; and here he has coatrived to 
enliven his poem with a little of that passion 
which bids fair, I think, to usurp the modern 
muses altogether. I know not how far this 
episode is a beauty upon the whole, but the 
swain's wish to carry "some faint idea of the 
vision bright," to entertain her " partial lis 
tening ear," is a pretty thought. But in my 
opinion the most beautiful passages in the whole 
poem are the fowls crowding, in wintry frosts, 
to Lochlomond's "hospitable flood;" theii 
wheeling round, their lighting, mixing, diving, 
&c.; and the glorious description of the .sports- 
man. This last is equal to anything in th-j 
"Seasons." The idea of "the floating tribe 
distant seen, far glistering to the moon," pro- 
voking his eye as he is obliged to leave them, 
is a noble ray of poetic genius. "The howling 
winds," the "hideous roar" of the white cas- 
cades," are all in the same style. 

I forget that while I am thus holding forth 
with the heedless warmth of an enthusiast, 1 
am perhaps tiring you with nonsense. I must, 
however, mention that the last verse of the six- 
teenth page is one of the most elegant compli 



i92 



GENERAL COREESPONDENCE 



ments I have ever seen. I must likewise notice 
chat beautiful paragraph beginning, "The 
gleaming lake," &c. I dare not go into the 
particular beauties of the last two paragraphs, 
but they are admirably fine, and truly Ossianic. 

I must beg your pardon for this lengthened 
scidwl. I had no idea of it when I began — I 
ghould like to know who the author is; but, 
wheeler te be, please present him with my 
grateful thanks for the entertainment he has 
afforded me. 

A friend of mine desired me to commission for 
him two books, "Letters on the Religion essen- 
tial to Man," a book you sent me before ; and 
" The World unmasked, or the Philosopher the 
greatest Cheat." 'Send me them by the first 
opportunity. The Bible you sent me is truly 
elegant ; I only wish it had been in two volumes. 

R. B. 



CXXXVIII. 
TO THE EDITOR OF "THE STAR." 

[The clergyman who preached the eermon which this 
letter condemns, was a man equally worthy and stern — a 
divine of Scotland's elder day : he received "a harmoni- 
ous call" to a smaller stipend than that of Dunsoore — 
and accepted it.] 

November 8th, 1788. 

SiK, 

rroTwiTHSTANDiNG the opprobrious epithets 
with which some of our philosophers and gloomy 
sectarians have branded our nature — the prin- 
ciple of universal selfishness, the proneness to 
all evil, they have given us ; still the detestation 
n which inhumanity to the distressed, or inso- 
lence to the fallen, are held by all mankind, 
shows that they are not natives of the human 
heart. Even the unhappy partner of our kind, 
who is undone, the bitter consequence of his 
follies or his crimes, who but sympathizes with 
the miseries of this ruined profligate brother ? 
We forget the injuries and feel for the man. 

went, last Wednesday, to my parish church, 
most cordially to join in grateful acknowledg- 
ment to the AuTHOK OF ALL GooD, for the con- 
sequent ble^ings of the glorious revolution. To 
that auspicious event we owe no less than our 
liberties, civil and religious ; to it we are like- 
wise indebted for the present Royal Family, the 
ruling features of whose administration have 
over been mildness to the subject, and tender- 
ness of his rights. 

Bred and educated in revolution principles, 



the principles of reason and common sense, it 
could not be any silly political prejudice which 
made my heart revolt at the harsh abusive man- 
ner in which the reverend gentleman mentioned 
the House of Stewart, and which, I am afraid, 
was too much the language of the day. We 
may rejoice sufficiently in our deliverance from 
past evils, without cruelly raking up the asheg 
of those whose misfortune it was, perhaps aa 
much as their crime, to be the authors of those 
evils ; and we may bless God for all his good- 
ness to us as a nation, without at the same time 
cursing a few ruined, powerlesa exiles, who 
only harboured ideas, and made attempts, that 
most of us would have done, had we been in 
their situation. 

"The bloody and tyrannical House of Stew- 
art" may be said with propriety and justice, 
when compared with the present royal family, 
and the sentiments of our days ; but is there 
no allowance to be, made for the manners of 
the times ? Were the royal contemporaries of 
the Stewarts more attentive to their subjects' 
rights ? Might not the epithets of "bloody and 
tyrannical" be, with at least equal justice, 
applied to the House of Twdoif, of York, or an3r 
other of their predecessors ? 

The simple state of the case. Sir, seems to be 
this : — At that period, the science of govern- 
ment, the knowledge of the true relation be- 
tween king and subject, was, like other sciences 
and other knowledge, just m its infancy, 
emerging from dark ages of ij^norance and bar- 
barity. 

The Stewarts only contended for prerogatives 
which they knew their predecessors enjoyed, 
and which they saw their contemporaries enjoy- 
ing; but these prerogatives were inimical to 
the happiness of a nation and the rights of sub- 
jects. 

In this contest between prince and people, 
the consequence of that light of science which 
had lately dawned over Europe, the monarch of 
France, for example, was victorious over th« 
struggling liberties of his people with us, 
luckily the monarch failed, and his inwarrant- 
able pretensions fell a sacrifice to our rights 
and happiness. Whether it was owing to the 
wisdom of leading individuals, or to the just- 
ling of parties, I cannot pretena to determine; 
but likewise happily for ua, the kingly power 
was shifted into another branch of the family, 
who, as they owed the throne solely to the ca'J 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



393 



»f a free people, could claim nothing incon- 
Bistent with the convenanted terms which placed 
them there. 

The Stewarts have been condemned and 
laughed at for the folly and impracticability 
of their attempts in 1715 and 1745. That they 
failed, I bless God : but cannot join in the 
ridicule against theni. Who does not know that 
Ihc abilities or defects of leaders and com- 
Oatders £*re often hidden until put to the 
♦,ouohstone of exigency ; and that there is a 
caprice of fortune, an omnipotence in particular 
accidents and conjunctures of circumstances, 
which exalt us as heroes, or brand us as mad- 
men, just as they are for or against us ? 

Man, Mr. Publisher, is a strange, weak, in- 
consistent being ; who would believe. Sir, that 
in this our Augustan age of liberality and re- 
finement, while we seem so justly sensible and 
jealous of our rights and liberties, and animated 
with SUCH indignation against the very memory 
of those who would have subverted them — that 
a certain people under our national protection 
should complain, not against our monarch and 
a few favourite advisers, but against our whole 
LEGISLATIVE BODY, for similar oppression, and 
almost in the very same terms, as our forefa- 
thers did of the house of Stewart ! I will not, 
I cannot enter into the merits of the cause ; but 
I dare say the American Congress, in 1776, will 
be allowed to be as able and as enlightened as 
the English Caisvention was in 1688 ; and that 
their posterity will celebrate the centenar-y of 
their deliverance from us, as duly and sincerely 
as we do ours from the oppressive measures of 
the wrong-headed House of Stewart. 

To conclude, Sir ; let every man who has a 
tear ^or the many miseries incident to humanity 
feel for a family illustrious as any in Europe, 
and unfortunate beyond historic precedent ; and 
hi every Briton (and particularly every Scots- 
man^ who 3ver looked with reverential pity on 
She dotage of a parent, cast a veil over the fatal 
Rietftk^j of the kings of his forefathers 

E. B. 



CXXXIX. 
TO MRS. DUNLbP, 

AT MOREHAM MAINS. 

I'Tne holfs. presented to the poet by the Dunlops was 
Bought, at the sale of Ellislard stock, by Miller of Dal- 
•muton, and long grazed thf pastures in his " policies" 
•T the name o' "Burns."] 



Mauchline, IZth November, lySS 
Madam, 

■I had the very great pleasure of dining at 
Dunlop yesterday. Men are said to flatter wo- 
men because they are weak ; if it is so, poeta 
must be weaker still ; for Misses R and K. and 
Miss G. M'K., with their flattering attentions, 
and artful compliments, absolutely turned mj 
head. I own they did not lard me over M 
many a poet does his patron, but they so intoxi- 
cated me with their sly insinuations and deli- 
cate inuendos of compliment, that if it had not 
been for a lucky recollection, how much addi- 
tional weight and lustre your good opinion and 
friendship must give me in that circle, I had 
certainly looked upon myself as a person of no 
small consequence. I dare not say one word 
how much I was charmed with the Major's 
friendly welcome, elegant manner, and acute re- 
mark, lest I should be thought to overbalance 
my orientalisms of applause over-against the 
finest quey' in Ayrshire, which he made me a 
present of to help and adorn my farm-stock. 
As it was on hallow-day, I am determined an- 
nually, as that day returns, to decorate her horna 
with an ode of gratitude to the family of Dunlop. 

So soon as I know of your arrival at Dunlop, 
I will take the first conveniency to dedicate a 
day, or perhaps two, to yon and friendship, 
under the guarantee of the Major's hospitality. 
There will soon be threescore and ten miles of 
permanent distance between us ; and now that 
your friendship and friendly correspondence ia 
entwisted with the heart-strings of my enjoy 
ment of life, I must indulge myself in a happj 
day of " The feast of reason and the flow of 
soul." R. B. 



TO MR. JAMES JOHNSON, 

ENOKAVEK, 

[James Johnson, though not an ungenerous maa, 
meanly refused to give a copy of the Musical Museum to 
Burns, who desired to bestow it on one to whoni hii 
family was deeply indebted. This was in the last year 
of the poet's life, and after the Museum had been brigh 
ened by so much of his lyric verse.] 

Mauchline, November 15<A, 1788. 
My deak Sik, 
I HAVE sent you two more songs If jou havf 



594 



GENEKAL CORRESPONDENCE 



got any tunes, or anything to correct, please 
fiend them by return of the carrier. 

I can easily see, my dear friend that you 
will very probably have four volumes. Perhaps 
you may not find your account lucratively in 
this business ; but you are a patriot for the 
music of your country ; and I am certain 
posterity will look on themselves as highly in- 
debted to your public spirit. Be not in a hurry ; 
let us go on correctly, and your name shall be 
immortal. 

I am preparing a flaming preface for your 
third volumo. I see every day new musical 
publications advertised; but what are they? 
Gaudy, hunted butterflies of a day, and then 
vanish for ever : but your work will outlive the 
momentary neglects of idle fashion, and defy 
the teeth of time. 

Have you never a fair goddess that leads you 
a wild-goose chase of amorous devotion ? Let 
me know a few of her qualities, such as whether 
she be rather black, or fair; plump, or thin; 
short, or tall, &c. ; and choose your air, and I 
Bhall task my muse to celebrate her. 

R. B. 



TO DR. BLACKLOCK. 

[Biacklock, though blind, was a cheerful and good 
man. " There was, perhaps, never one among all man- 
kind," says Heron, "whom you might more truly have 
called an angel upon earth."} 

Mauchline, November 15th, 1788. 
Reverend and deak Sir, 

As I hear nothing of your motions, but that 
you are, or were, out of town, I do not know 
where this^may find you, or whether it will find 
you at all. I wrote you a long letter, dated 
from the land of matrimony, in June ; but either 
it had not found you, or, what I dread more, it 
found you or Mrs. Biacklock in too precarious 
ft Btaks of health and spirits t« take notice of 
aa idis packet. 

I have done many little things for JohnsoDj 
Bine? I had the pleasure of seeing you ; and I 
have finished one piece, in the way of Pope's 
" Moral Epistles ;" but, from your silence, I 
have everything to fear, so I have only sent you 
two melancholy things, which I tremble lest 
they should too well suit the tone of your pre- 
lent feelings. 

\a. a fortnight I move, bag and baggage, to 



Nithsdale ; till then, my direction is at thin 
place ; after that period, it will be at EUisland, 
near Dumfries. It would extremely oblige me, 
were it but half a line, to let me know how yon 
are, and where you are. Can I be indifi"ereiit 
to the fate of a man to whom I owe so much I 
A man whom I not only esteem, but venerate. 

My warmest good wishes and most respectful 
compliments to Mrs. Biacklock, and Miss John* 
ston, if she is with you. 

I cannot conclude without telling you that I 
am more and more pleased with the step I 
took respecting "my Jean." Two things, from 
my happy experience, I set down as apothegms 
in life. A wife's head is immaterial, com- 
pared with her heart; and — "Virtue's (for wis- 
dom what poet pretends to it?) ways are ways 
of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace." 
Adieu ! R. B. 

fHere follow " The Mother's Lament for the Loss of 
her Son," and the song beginning " The lazy mist hangi 
from the brow of the hill."] 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

[The " Auld lang syne," which Burns here introduce! 
to Mrs. Dunlop as a strain of the olden time, is as surelv 
his own as Tara-o-Shanter.] 

Mlisland, 17th December, 1788. 
My dear honoured Friend, 
Yours, dated Edinburgh, which I have just 
read, makes me very unhappy. " Almost olind 
and wholly deaf," are melancholy news of 
human nature ; but w'.jeu told of a much-loved 
and honoured fripud. they carry misery in the 
sound. Goodness on your part, and gratitude 
on mine, began a tie which has gradually en- 
twisted itself among the dearest chords of my 
bosom, and J tremble at the omens of your late 
and present aillrg haoii and shattered health. 
You miscalcula'oe rxiattera widely, when you for- 
bid my waitinfj on you, lest it should hurt mj 
worldly couc'jiiU). My small scale of farming 
is exceediivgiy more simple and easy than wha* 
you have UiUy seen at Moreham Mains. But, 
be that »J ic may, the heart of the man and the 
fancy of the poet are the two grand considera- 
tions for which I live : if miry ridges and dirty 
dunghills are to engross the best part of the 
functions of my soul immortal, I had better been 
a rook or a magpie at once, and then I shoul<? 




ttot ha^e bten plagued with any ideas superior 
to breaking of clods and picking up grubs ; not 
to mention bai'n-door cocks or mallards, crea- 
tui-es with which I could almost exchange lives 
at any time. If you continue so deaf, I am 
afraid a \isitwill be no great pleasure to either 
of us ; but if I hear you are got so well again 
S8 fc be able to relish conversation, look you 
to it, Madam, for I will make my threaten- 
mgg good. I am to be at the New-year-day 
. fail of Ayr ; and, by all that is sacred in the 
world, friend, I will come and see you. 

Your meeting, which you so well describe, 
with your old schoolfellow and friend, was 
truly interesting. Out upon the ways of the 
world} — They spoil "these social offsprings of 
the heart." Two veterans of the "men of the 
world" would have met with little more heart- 
workings than two old hacks worn out on the 
road. Apropos, is not the Scotch phrase, "Auld 
lang syne," exceedingly expressive ? There is 
an old song and tune which has often thrilled 
through my soul. You know I am an enthusiast 
in old Scotch songs. I shall give you the verses 
on the other sheet, as I suppose Mr. Ker will 
save you the postage. 

" Should auld acquaintance be forgot !"1 

Light be the turf on the'breast of the heaven- 
inspired poet who composed this glorious frag- 
ment. There is more of the fire of native genius 
in it than in half-a-dozen of modern English 
Bacchanalians ! Now I am on my hobby-horse, 
I cannot help inserting two other old stanzas, 
which please me mightily : — 

" Go fetch to me a pint of wine. "2 

R. B. 



To MISS DAVIES. 

(The Ijaird of Glenriddel informed " the charming, 
».vely Davies" that Burns was composing a song in her 
f rEias The poet acted on this, and sent the song, en- 
uioiwd m tliis characteristic letter ] 

December, 1788. 
KAi>A]yi, 
I tN^ERSTAND my Very worthy neighbour, 
Mr. Ridiel, has informed you that I have made 
you the subject of some verses. There is some- 
thing so provoking in the idea of being the bur- 
then of a ballad, that I do not think Job or 
.Vfoses, thougl such patterns of patience and 



mee^ess, could have resisted the curiosity H 
know what that ballad was : so my worthj 
friend has done me a mischief, which I dare saj 
he never intended ; and reduced me to the un 
fortunate alternative of leaving your cutiosity 
ungratified, or else disgusting you wiLh foolish 
verses, the unfinished production of a random 
moment, and never meant to have met your 
ear. I have heard or read somewhere cf a 
gentleman who had some genius, much ecceu- 
tricity, and very considerable dexterity with hia 
pencil. In the accidental group of life into 
which one is thrown, wherever this gentleman 
met with a character in a more than ordinary 
degree congenial to his heart, he used to steal 
a sketch of the face, merely, he said, as a nota 
bene, to point out the agreeable recollection to 
his memory. What this gentleman's pencil was 
to him, my muse is to me ; and the verses I do 
myself the honour to send you are a memento 
exactly of the same kind that he indulged in. 

It may be more owing to the fastidiousness 
of my caprice than the delicacy of my taste ; 
but I am so often tired, disgusted and hurt with 
insipidity, affectation, and pride of mankind, 
that when I meet with a person "after my own 
heart," I positively feel what an orthodox Pro- 
testant would call a species of idolatry, which 
acts on my fancy like inspiration ; and I can 
no more desist rhyming on the impulse, than 
ah ^olian harp can refuse its tones to the 
streaming air. A distich or two would be the 
consequence, though the object which hit my 
fancy were gray-bearded-age ; but where my 
theme is youth and beauty, a young lady whoso 
personal charms, wit, and sentiment are equally 
striking and unaffected — by heavens! though 
I had lived three score years a married man, 
and three score years before I was a mar- 
ried man, my imagination would hallow the 
very idea : and I am truly sorry that the in- 
closed stanzas have done such poor justice to 
such a subject. R. B* 



See Song XX. 



2 See Song LXXII. 



TO MR. JOHN TENNANT, 

[The mill of John Currie stood on a small stream which 
fed the loch of Friar's Carse— near the house of the daoi* 
of whom he sang, " Sic a wife as Willie had."] 

December 22, 1788. 
I YESTERDAY tried my cask of whiskey for th« 
first time, and I assure you it does you great 



s9e 



aENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



credit. It will bear five waters strong ; or six 
ordinary toddy. The whiskey of this country 
is a most rascally liquor ; and, by consequence, 
only drank by the most rascally part of the in- 
habitants. I am persuaded, if you once get a 
footing here, you might do a great deal of busi- 
ness, in the way of consumpt ; and should you 
commence distiller again,* this is the native 
barley country. I am ignorant if, in your pre- 
eent way of dealing, you would think it worth 
your while to extend your business so far as 
this country side. I write you this on the 
account of an accident, which I must take the 
merit of having partly designed to. A neigh- 
bour of mine, a John Currie, miller in Carse- 
mill — a man who is, in a word, a "very" good 
man, even for a £500 bargain — he and his wife 
were in my house the time I broke open the 
cask. They keep a country public-house and 
eell a great deal of foreign spirits, but all along 
thought that whiskey would have degraded this 
house. They were perfectly astonished at my 
whiskey, both for its taste and strength ; and, 
by their desire, I write you to know if you could 
supply them with liquor of an equal quality, 
and what price. Please write me by first post, 
and direct to me at EUisland, near Dumfries. 
If you could take a jaunt this way yourself, I 
have a spare spoon, knife and fork very much at 
your service. My compliments to Mrs. Ten- 
nant, and all the good folks in Glenconnel and 
Barquharrie. R, B. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

[The feeling mood of moral reflection exhibited in the 
following letter, was common to the house of William 
Burns : in a letter addressed by Gilbert to Robert of this 
date, the poet is reminded of the early vicissitudes of 
tticir name, and desired to look up, and be thankful.] 

Ellisland, New-year-day Morning, 1789. 
This, dear Madam, is a morning of wishes, 
and would to God that I came under the apostle 
James's description ! — the prayer of a righteous 
man availeth much. In that case. Madam, you 
should "welcome in a year full of blessings : 
everything that obstructs or disturbs tranquil- 
lity and self-enjoyment, should be removed, 
and every pleasure that frail humanity can 
taste, should be yours. I own myself so little 
H Presbyterian, that I approve of set times and 
leasons of more than ordinary acts of devotion, 



for breaking in on that habitual routine of lif« 
and thought, which-is so apt to reduce our exist 
ence to a kind of instinct, or even sometimes^ 
and with some minds, to a state very little su- 
perior to mere machinery. 

This day, the first Sunday of May, a breezy, 
blue-skyed noon some time about the beginning, 
and a hoary morning and calm sunny day about 
the end, of autumn ; these, time out of miad, 
have been with me a kind of holiday. 

I believe I owe this to that glorious paper in 
the Spectator, " The Vision of Mirza," a piece 
that struck my young fancy before I was capa- 
ble of fixing an idea to a word of thr^ syllables : 
"On the 6th day of the moon, which, according 
to the custom of my forefathers, I always keep 
holy, after having washed myself, and off'ered up 
my morning devotions, I ascended the high hill 
of Bagdat, in order to pass the rest of the day 
in meditation and prayer." 

We know nothing, or next to nothing, of the 
substance or structure of our souls, so cannot 
account for those seeming caprices in them, 
that one should be particularly pleased with this 
thing, or struck with that, which, on minds of a 
difl'erent cast, makes no extraordinary impres- 
sion. I have some favourite flowers in spring, 
among which are the mountain-daisy, the hare- 
bell, the fox-glove, the wild brier-rose, the bud- 
ding birch, and the hoary hawthorn, that I view 
and hang over with particular delight. I never 
hear the loud solitary whistle of the curlew in 
a summer noon, or the wild mixing cadence of 
a troop of grey plovers, in an autumnal morn 
ing, without feeling an elevation of soul like 
the enthusiasm of devotion or poetry. X^H me, 
my dear friend, to what can this be owing ? Are 
we a piece of machinery, which, like the iEolian 
harp, passive, takes the impression of the pass- 
ing accident ? Or do these workings argue 
something within us above the troddon clod ? 1 
own myself partial to such proofs of those aw- 
ful and important realities — a God that made a!J 
things — man's immaterial and immortal nature 
— and a world of weal or woe beyond death and 
the grave. R. B. 



CXLVT- 
TO DR. MOORE. 



[The poet seems, in this letter, to perceixe that Ellis 
land was not the bargain he had reckoned it : he intnaawd, 



OF KOBMRT BURNS. 



397 



U the reader will remsmber, something of the same kind 
to Margaret Chalmers.] 



SlE, 



Ellisland, Ath Jan. 1789. 



As often as T think of writing to you, whict 
has been three or four times every week these 
six months, it gi^ies me something so like the 
idea of an ordinary-sized statue offering at a 
conversation with the E,hodian colossus, that my 
mind misgives me, and the affair always mis- 
carries somewhere between purpose and resolve. 
I have at last got some business with you, and 
business letters are written by the stylebook. I 
Bay my business is with you, Sir, for you never 
had any with me, except the business that be- 
nevolence has in the mansion of poverty. 

The character and employment of a poet were 
formerly my pleasure, but are now my pride. I 
know that a very great deal of my late eclat 
was owing to the singularity of my situation, and 
the honest prejudice of Scotsmen; but^still, as 
1 said in the preface to my first edition, I do 
look upon myself as having some pretensions 
from Nature to the poetic character. I have not 
a doubt but the knack, the aptitude, to learn 
the muses' trade, is a gift bestowed by -him 
" who forms the secret bias of the soul ;" — but 
I as firmly believe, that excellence in the profes- 
sion is the fruit of industry, labour, attention, 
and j^ins. At least I am resolved to try my 
doctrine by the test of experience.. Another 
appearance from the pi«>ss I put off to a very 
distant day, a day that may never arrive — but 
poesy I am determined to prosecute with all my 
vigour. Nature has given very few, if any, of 
the profession, the talents of shining in every 
species of composition. I shall try (for until 
trial it is impossible to know) whether she has 
qualified me to shine in any one. The worst of 
it is, by the time one has finished a piece, it 
has been so often viewed and reviewed before 
the mental eye, that one loses, in a good mea- 
aure, the powers of critical discrimination. 
Here the best criterion I know is a friend — not 
only of abilities to judge, but with good-nature 
enough, like a prudent teacher with a young 
learner, to praise perhaps a little more than is 
exactly just, lest the thin-skinned animal fall 
into that most deplorable of all poetic diseases 
— heart-breaking despondency of himself. Dare 
I, Sir, already immensely indebted to your good- 
ttess, ask the additional obligation of your being 
that friend to me ? I enclose you an essay of mine 
m. a walk of poesy to me entirely new ; I mean 



t}ie epistle addressed to R. G. Esq. or Robert 
Graham of Fintray, Esq., a gentleman of uncom* 
mon worth, to whom I lie under very great ob- 
ligations. The story of the poem, like most o* 
my poems, is connected with my own story, and 
to give you the one, I must give you something 
of the other. I cannot boast of Mr. Creech's 
ingenuous fair dealing to me. He kept me 
hanging about Edinburgh from the 7th August, 
1787, until the 13th April, 1788, before ho 
would condescend to give me a statement of 
affairs ; nor had* I got it even then, but for an 
angry letter I wrote him, which irritated his 
pride. "I could" not a "tale" but a detail 
"unfold," but what am I that should speak 
against the Lord's anointed Bailie of Edin- 
burgh? •> 

I believe I shall in the whole, lOOZ. copy-right 
included, clear about 400Z. some little odds ; and 
even part of this depends upon what the gentle 
man has yet to settle with me. T give you this 
information, because you did me the honour to 
interest yourself much in my welfare. I give 
you this information, but I give it to yourself 
only, for I am still much in the gentleman's 
mercy. Perhaps I injure the man in the idea 
I am sometimes tempted to have of him — God 
forbid I should ! A little time will try, for in a 
month I shall go to town to wind up the busi 
ness if possible. 

To give the rest of my story in brief, I have 
married " my Jean," and taken a farm : with 
the first step I have every day more and 
more reason to be«satisfied: with the last, it is 
rather the reverse. I have a younger brother, 
who supports my aged mother ; another still 
younger brother, and three sisters, in a farm. 
On my last return from Edinburgh, it cost mo 
about 180Z. to save them from ruin. Not that 
I have lost so much.— I only interposed between 
my brother and his impending fate by the loan 
of so much. I give myself no airs on this, for 
it was mere selfishness on my part : I was ccn- 
scious that the wrong scale of the balance waa 
pretty heavily charged, and I thought that 
throwing a little filial piety and fraternal affec- 
tion into the scale in my favour, might nelp to 
smooth matters at the grand reckoning. There 
is still one thing would make my circumstances 
quite easy : I have an excise officer's commis- 
sion, and I live in the midst of a country divi- 
sion. My request to Mr. Graham, who is one 
of the commissioners of excise, was, if in his 
power, to procure me that division. If I werj 



898 



aENEKAL CORRESPONDENCiJ 



^erj sanguine, I might hope that some of my 
great patrons might procure me a Treasury 
warrant for supervisor, surveyor-general, &c. 

Thus, secure of a livelihood, "to thee, sweet 
poetry, delightful maid," I would consecrate 
my fntire days. R. B. 



TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

[The song which the poet says he brushed up a little 
18 nowhere mentioned : he wrote one hundred, and 
brushed up more, for the Museum of Johnson.] 

Ellisland, Jan. &, 1789. 
Many happy returns of the season to you, 
my dear Sir ! May you be comparatively happy 
up to your comparative worth among the sons 
of men; which wish would, I am sure, make 
you one of the most blest of thp human race. 

I do not know if passing a "Writer to the 
signet," be a trial of scientific merit, or a mere 
business of friends and intei;est. However it 
be, let me quote you my two favourite passages, 
which, though I have repeated them ten thou- 
sand times, still they rouse my manhood and 
Bteel my resolution like inspiration. 

" On reason build resolve, 

That column of true majesty in man." 

YoTTNG. Night Thottghts. 
■'Hear, Alfred, hero of the state, 
Thy genius heaven's high will declare; 
The triumph of the truly great. 
Is never, never to despair ! 
Is never to despair!" 

Thomson. Masqtte of Alfred. 
I grant you enter the lists of life, to struggle 
for bread, business, notice, and distinction, in 
common with hundreds. — But who are they? 
Men, like yourself, and of that aggregate body 
your compeers, seven-tenths of them come short 
pf your advantages natural and accidental ; 
while two of those that remain, either neglect 
their parts, as flowers blooming in a desert, or 
mij-spend their strength, like a bull goring a 
bramble-bush. 

But to change the theme : I am still catering 
for Johnson's publication; and among others, 
[ have brushed up the following old favourite 
long a little, with a view to your worship. I 
bave only altered a word here and there ; but if 
you like the humour of it, we shall think of a 
itanza or two to add to it. 



CXLVITI. 

TO PROFESSOR DUGALD STEWART. 

[The iron justice to which the poet alludes, in th'B let 
ter, was exercised by Dr. Gregory, on the poem of tlW 
*' Wounded Hare."] 



Sir, 



Ellisland, 20th Jan, 1789. 



The enclosed sealed packet I sent to Edin 
burgh, a few days after I had the happiness of 
meeting you in Ayrshire, but you were gone for 
the Continent. I have now added a few more of 
my productions, those for which T am indebted 
to the Nithsdale muses. The piece inscribed to 
R. G. Esq., is a copy of verses 'I sent Mr. Gra- 
ham, of Fintray, accompanying a request for hie 
assistance in a matter to me of very great mo- 
ment. To that gentleman I am already doubly 
indebted, for deeds of kindness of serious im- 
port to my dearest interests, done in a manner 
grateful to the delicate feelings of sensibility. 
This poem is a species of composition new to 
me, but I do not intend it shall be my last essay 
of the kind, as you will see by the " Poet's Pro- 
gress." These fragments, if my design succeed,, 
are but a small part of the intended whole. I 
propose it shall be the work of my utmost ex- 
ertions, ripened by years ; of course I do not 
wish it much known. The fragment beginning 
"A little, upright, pert, tart, &c.," I haij^ not 
shown to man living, till I now send it you. It 
forms the postulata, the axioms, the definition 
of a character, which, if it appear at all, shall 
be placed in a variety of lights. This particu- 
lar part I send you merely as a sample of my 
hand at portrait-sketching, but, lest idle con- 
jecture should pretend to point out the orig: 
nal, please to let it be for your single, sole in 
spection. 

Need I make any apology for this trouble, te 
a gentleman who has treated me with such 
marked benevolence and peculiar kindness— 
who has entered into my interests with so much, 
zeal, and on whose critical decisions I can so 
fully depend ? ' A poet as I am by trade, thes« 
decisions are to me of the last consequense. 
My late transient acquaintance among some of 
the merei rank and file of greatness, I resign 
with ease ; but to the distinguished champions 
of genius and learning, I shall be ever ambi- 
tious of being known. The native genius anJ^ 
accurate discernment in Mr. Stewart's critical 
. strictures ; the justness (iron justice, for he haj 
no bowels of compassion for a poor poetic s5»- 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



399 



aw) of Dr. Gregory's remarks, and the delicacy 
ef Professor Dalzel's taste, I shall ever revere. 

I shall be in Edinburgh some time next 
month. 

I have the honour to be, Sir, 

Your highly obliged, and very 

Humble servant, 
R. B. 



TO "BISHOP GEDDES. 

[A exander Geides was &. controversialist and poet, 
*nd a bishop of the brokpi remnant of the Catholic 
Church of Scotland : he is kno^vn as the author of a 
very humorous ballad ca'ted " The Wee bit Wifickie," 
imd as the translator of one of the books of the Iliad, In 
opposition to Cowpei "^ 

Ellisland, M Feb. 1789. 

VENEBABIiE FaTHEK, 

As I am conscious that wherever I am, you do 
me the honour to interest yourself in my wel- 
fare, it gives me pleasure to inform you that I 
am here at last, stationary in the serious busi- 
ness of life, and have now not only the retired 
leisure, but the hearty inclination, to attend to 
those great and important questions — what 
I am ? where I am ? and for what I am des- 
tined? 

In that first concern, the conduct of the man, 
there was ever but one side on which I was ha- 
bitually blameable, and there I have secured 
myself in the way pointed out by Nature and 
Nature's God, I was sensible that to so help- 
'ess a creature as a poor poet, a wife and 
family were encumbrances, which a species of 
prudence would bid him shun ; but when th'e 
alternative was, being at eternal warfare with 
myself, on account of habitual follies, to give 
them no worse name, which no general example, 
no licentious wit, no sophistical infidelity, would, 
tc me, ever justify, I must have been a fool to 
have hesitated, and a madman to have made 
another choice. Besides, I had in "my Jean" 
» long and much-loved fellow-creature's happi- 
ness or misery among my hands, and who could 
trifle with such a deposit? 

In the affair of a livelihood, I think myself 
tolerably secure: I have good hopes of my 
^farm, but should they fail, I have an excise com- 
mission, which on my simple petition, will, at 
urny time, procure me bread. There is a certain 

.Agma affix* 1 to the character of an Excise 



officer, but I do not pretend to borrow honour 
from my profession ; and thougli the salary be 
comparatively small, it is luxury to anything 
that the first twenty-five years of my life taught 
me to expect. 

Thus, with a rational aim and method in life, 
you may easily guess, my reverend and much- 
honoured friend, that my characteristical trade 
is not forgotten. I am, if possible, more than 
over an enthusiast to the muses. I am deter- 
mined to study man and nature, and in that 
view incessantly ; and to try if the ripening and 
corrections of years can enable me to produce 
something worth preserving. 

You will see in your book, which I beg your 
pardon for detaining so long, that I have been 
tuning my lyre on the banks of Nith. Some 
large poetic plans that are floating in my ima 
gination, or partly put in execution, I shall im- 
part to you when I have the pleasure of meet- 
ing with you ; which, if you are then in Edin 
burgh, I shall have about thebeginning of March. 

That acquaintance, worthy Sir, with which 
you were pleased to honour me, you must still 
allow me to challenge ; for with whatever un- 
concern I give up my transient connexion with 
the merely great, those self-important beinga 
whose intrinsic * * * * [conjcealed under the 
accidental advantages of their * * * * I cannoi 
lose the patronizing notice of the learned and 
good, without the bitterest regret. 

R. B 



TO MR. JAMES BURNESS. 

[Fanny Burns married Adam Armour, brother to boa 
nie Jean, went with him to Mauchline, and bore hin. 
sons and daughters.] 

Ellisland, 9th Feb. 1789. 
Mt dear Sir, 
Why I did not write to you long ago, is what, 
even on the rack, I could not answer. If yoB 
can in you.r mind form an idea of indolence, die- 
sipation, hurry, cares, change of country, enter 
ing on untried scenes of life, all combined, you 
will save me the trouble of a blushing apology 
It could not be want of regard for a man for 
whom I had a high esteem before I knew him — 
an esteem which has much increased since I did 
know him ; and this caveat gntered, I shall 
plead guilty to any other indictment with which 
you shall please to charge we 



♦00 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



After I had parted from you for many months 
my life was one continued scene of dissipation. 
Here at last I am become stationary, and have 
taken a farm and — a wife. 

The farm is beautifully situated on the Nith, 
a large river that runs by Dumfries, and falls 
into the Solway frith. I have gotten a lease of 
my farm as long as I pleased : but how it may 
turn out is just a guess, it is yet to improve 
and enclose, &c. ; however, I have good hopes 
of my bargain on the whole. 

]My wife is my Jean, with whose story you are 
partly acquainted. I found I had a much-loved 
fellow creature's happiness or misery among my 
hands, and I durst not trifle with so sacred a 
deposit. Indeed I hate not any reason to re- 
pent the step I have taken, as I have attached 
myself to a very good wife, and have shaken 
myself loose of every bad failing. 

I have found my book a very profitable busi- 
ness, and with the profits of it I have begun 
life pretty decently. Should fortune not favour 
me in farming, as I have no great faith in her 
fickle ladyship, I have provided myself in an- 
other resource, which however some folks may 
affect to despise it, is still a comfortable shift 
in the day of misfortune. In the heyday of my 
fame, a gentleman whose name at least I dare 
say you know, as his estate lies somewhere near 
Dundee, Mr. Graham, of Fintray, one of the 
commissioners of Excise, offered me the commis- 
sion of an Excise officer. I thought it prudent 
to accept the offer; and accordingly I took my 
instructions, and have my commission by me. 
Whether I may ever do duty, or be a penny the 
better for it, is what I do not know ; but I have 
the comfortable assurance, that come whatever 
ill fate will, 1 can, on my simple petition to the 
Excise-board, get into employ. 

We have lost poor uncle Robert this winter. 
He has long been very weak, and with very lit- 
tle alteration on hjm, he expired 3d Jan. 

His son William has been with me this winter, 
and goes in May to be an apprentice to a mason. 
His ctlier son, the eldest, John, comes to me I 
expect in summer. They are both remarkably 
gliiut young fellows, and promise to do well. 
His only daughter, Fanny, has been with me 
ever since her father's death, and I purpose 
keeping her in my family till she be quite woman 
grown, and fit for service. She is one of the 
sleverest girls, and has one of the most amiable 
iispositions I have ever seen. 

All friends in this country and Ayrshire are 



well. Remember me to all friends in the norfh 
My wife joins me in compliments to Mrs. B, anc 
family. 

I am ever, my dear Cousin, 

Yours, sincerely, 

R. B. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

[The beautiful lines with which this letter concludes 
I have reason to believe were the production of the lady 
to whom the epistle is addressed.] 

Ellisland, ith March, 1789. 

Heue am I, my honoured friend, returned 
safe from the capital. To a man, who has a 
home, however humble or remote — if that homa 
is like mine, the scene of domestic comfort — the 
bustle of Edinburgh will soon be a business of 
sickening disgust. - 

' Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate you .'" 

When I must skulk into a corner, lest the rat 
tling equipage of some gaping blockhead should 
mangle me in the mire, I am tempted to exclaim 
— " What merits has he had, or what demerit 
have I had, in some state of pre-existence, that 
he is ushered into this state of being with the 
sceptre of rule, and the key of riches in his puny 
fist, and I am kicked into the world, the sport 
of folly, or the victim of pride ?" I have read 
somewhere of a monarch (in Spain I think it 
was), who was so out of humour with the Ptole- 
mean system of astronomy, that he said had 
he been of the Ceeatob's council, he could 
have saved him a great deal of labour and ab- 
surdity. I will not defend this blasphemous 
speech ; but often, as I have glided with humble 
stealth through the pomp of Princes' street, it 
has suggested itself to me, as an improvement 
on the present human figure, that a man in pro- 
portion to his own conceit of his consequence io 
the world, could have pushed out the longitude 
of his common size, as a snail pushes out his 
horns, or, as we draw out a perspective. This 
trifling alteration, not to mentiontheprodigious 
saving it would be in the tear and wear* of the 
neck and limb-sinews of many of his majesty's 
liege subjects, in the way of tossing the head 
and tiptoe strutting, would evidently turn out a 
vast advantage, in enabling us" at once to adjust 
the ceremonials in making a bow, or making 
way to a great man, and that too within a second 
of the precise spherical angle of reverence, ot 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



401 



an inch of the particular point of respectful dis- 
tance, which the important creature itself re- 
quires ; AS a measuring-glance at its tower- 
ing altitude, would determine the aifair like 
instinct. 

You are right, Madam, in your idea of poor 
Mylne's poem, which he has addressed to me. 
The piece has a good deal of merit, dut it has 
one great fault — it is, by far, too long. Besides, 
my success has encouraged such a shoal of ill- 
spawned-monsters to crawl into public notice, 
under the title of Scottish Poets, that the very 
term Scottish Poetry borders on the burlesque. 
When I write to Mr. Carfrae, I shall advise him 
rather to try one of his deceased friend's English 
pieces. I am prodigiously hurried with my own 
matters, else I would have requested a perusal 
of all Mylne's poetic performances ; and would 
have offered his friends my assistance in either 
selecting or correcting what would be proper 
for the press. What it is that occupies me so 
much, and perhaps a little oppresses my pre- 
sent spii'its, shall fill up a paragraph in some 
future letter. In the mean time, allow me to 
close tkia epistle with a few lines done by a 
friend of mine *****. I give you them, that 
as you have seen the original, you may guess 
whether one or two alterations I have ventured 
to make in them, be any real improvement. 
" Like the %ir plant that from our touch withdraws. 
Shriek, mildly fearful, even from applause, 
Be all a mother's fondest hope can dream, 
And a£i you are, my charming . . . ., seem. 
Straight as the fox-glove, ere her hells disclose, 
>Tild as the maiden- blushing hawthorn blows, 
Fair as the fairest of each lovely kind, 
Your form shall be the image of your mind ; 
Your manners shall so true your soul exprt/ss, 
That all shall long to know the Vk^rth they guess : 
Congenial hearts sha'l greet with k;;:>>i'.red love, 
And evpn sick'ning env/ must approve." 

R. B. 



CLII. 

TO IHE REV. PETER CARFRAE. 

[Mylne was a worthy and a modest man he died of 
Ul inflammatory fever in the prime of life.j 

1789. 
Ret. Sik, 
I DO not recollect that I have ever felt a se- 
verer pang of shame, than on looking at the 
da-*.*; of your obliging letter which accompanied 
Mr. Mylne's poem. 
I am much to blame : the honour M?. Mylne 



has done me, greatly enhanced in its value by 
the endearing, though melancholy circumstance, 
of its being the last production of his muse, de 
served a better return. 

I have, as you hint, thought of sending a 
copy of the poem to some periodical publica 
tion; but, on second thoughts, I am afraid, tha» 
in tne present case, it would be an imprjp<;i 
step. My success, perhaps as much accidcnta' 
as mer'+'Cd, has brought an inundation of non 
sense under the name of Scottish poetry. Sub 
scription-bills for Scottish poems have so dun- 
ned, and daily do dun the public, that the very 
name is in danger of contempt. For these rea 
sons, if publishing any of Mr. Mylne's poems in 
a magazine, &c., be at all prudent, in my 
opinion it certainly should not be a Scottish 
poem. The profits of the labours of a man of 
genius are, I hope, as honourable as any profits 
whatever ; and Mr. Mylne's relations are most 
justly entitled to that honest harvest, which 
fate has denied himself to reap. But let the 
friends of Mr. Mylne's fame (among whom I 
crave the honour of ranking myself) always 
keep in eye his respectability as a man and as 
a poet, and take no measure that, before the 
world knows anything about him, would risk 
his name and character being classed with the 
fools of the times. 

I have. Sir, some experience of publishing ; 
and the way in which I would proceed with Mr. 
Mylne's poem is this : — I would publish^ iji two cr 
three English and Scottish public papers, any 
one of his English poems which should, by pri- 
vate judges, be thought the most excellent, and 
mention it, at the same time, as one of the pro- 
ductions of a Lothian farmer, of respectable 
character, lately deceased, whose poems his 
friends had it in idea to publish, soon, by sub- 
scription, for the sake of his numerous family . 
— not in pity to that family, but in justice to 
what his friends think the poetic merits of the 
deceased ; and to secure, m the most effectual 
manner, to those tender connexions, whose right 
it is, the pecuniary reward of those merits. 

R. B. 



CLlii. 
TO DR. MOORE. 



[Edward Nielson, whom Burns here introduces to Or 
Moore, was minister of Kirkbean, on the Solwav-»i«*«» 



i02 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



he was a jovial man, arid loved good cheer, and merry 
eompany] 



Sir, 



Ellisland, 2M March, 1789. 



The gentleman who will deliver you this is a 
Mr. Nielsen, a worthy clergyman in my neigh- 
b Burliood, and a very particular acquaintance 
of mine. x\s I have troubled him with this 
pHcket, 1 must turn him over ta your goodness, 
to recompense him for it in a way in which he 
much needs your assistance, and where you can 
effectually serve him : — Mr Nielson is on his 
way for France, to wait on his Grace of Queens- 
berry, on som.s little business of a good deal of 
importance to him, and he wishes for your in- 
structions respecting the most eligible mode of 
travelling, &c., for him, when he has crossed 
the channel. I should not have dared to take 
this liberty with you, but that I am told, by 
those who have the honour of your personal 
arqiaintance, that to be a poor honest Scotch- 
man is a letter of recommendation to you, and 
that to have it in your power to serve, such a 
character, gives you much pleasure. 

The enclosed ode is a compliment to the me- 
rdory of the late Mrs. Oswald, of Auchencruive. 
f ou, probably, knew her personally, an honour 
of which I cannot boast ; but I spent my early 
yeaj-s in her neighbourhood, and among her 
servants ajid tenants. I know that she was de- 
tested with the most heart-felt cordiality. How- 
ever, in the particular part of her conduct which 
roused my poetic wrath, she was much less 
blameable. In January last, on my road to 
AjTshire, I had put up at Bailie Wigham's in 
Sanquhar, the only tolerable inn in the place. 
The frost was keen, and tha grim evening and 
howling wind were ushering in a night of snow 
and drift. My horse and I were both much fa.- 
tigued with the labours of the day, and just as 
my friend the Bailie and I were bidding defiance 
\o the storm, over a smoking bowl, in wheels 
the funeral pageantry of the late great Mrs. 
Oswald, and poor T am forced to brave all the 
horrors of the tempestuous night, and jade my 
hwrse, my young favourite horse, whom I had 
just christened Pegasus, twelve miles farther 
on, through the wildest moors and hills of Ayr- 
shire, to New Cumnock, the next inn. The 
powers of poesy and prose sink under me, when 
I would describe what I felt. SuiEce it to sa7, 
that when a good fire at New Cumnock had so 
far recovered my frozen sinewr, I sat down and 
wrote the enclosed ode 



I was at Edinburgh lately, and settled flaallj 
with Mr. Creech ; and I must own, that, at last, 
he has been amicable and fair with me. 

KB 



TO MR. WILLIAM BURNS, 

[William Burns was the youngest brother of the tK>w« 
he was bred a sadler; went to Longtown, and finall; tft 
London, where he died early.] 

Isle, March 25ih, 1789. 
I HAVE stolen from my corn-sowing this minute 
to write a line to accompany your shirt and hat, 
for I can no more. Your sister Maria arrived 
yesternight, and begs to be remembered to you. 
Write me every opportunity, never mind post- 
age. My head, too, is as addle as an egg, this 
morning, with dining abroad yesterday. I re- 
ceived yours by the mason. Forgive me this 
foolish-looking scrawl of an epistle. 
I am ever. 

My dear William, 

Yours, 

R. B. 
P. S. If you are not then gone from Longtown, 
I'll write you a long letter, by this day se'en- 
night. If you should not succeed in your tramps, 
don't be dejected, or take any rash step — re- 
turn to us in that case, and we will court for- 
tune's better humour. Remember this, I charge 
you. R. B. 



TO MR. HILL. 



[The Monkland Book Club existed only while Robert 
Riddel, of the Friars-Carse, lived, or Burns had leisure 
to attend: such institutions, when well conducted, are 
very beneficial, when not oppressed by divinity and Verse, 
as they sometimes are.] 

Ellisland, 2d AprU, 1789. 

I wiLi make no excuse, my dear Bibliopolus 
(God forgive me for murdering language !) that 
1 have sat down to write you on this vile paper. 

It is economy, Sir ; it is that cardinal virtue, 
prudence : so I beg you will sit down, and either 
compose or borrow a panegyric. If you are 
going to borrow, apply to * * * * to compose, or 
rather to compound, something very clever on 
my remarkable frugality ; that I write to one of 
my most esteemed friends on this wretched 
pape'', which was originally intended for ihf 



OF KOBEKT BURNS. 



4UT; 



»enal fist of some drunken exciseman, to take 
iirty notes in a miserable vault of an ale-cel- 
lar. 

Frugality! thou mother of ten thousand 
blessings — thou cook of fat beef and dainty 
greens ! — thou manufacturer of warm Shetland 
hose, and conifortable surtouts ! — thou old house- 
wife, darning thy decayed stockings with thy 
ancient spectacles on thy aged nose ! — lead me, 
hand me in thy clutching palsied fist, up thcjse 
heights, ano through those thickets, hitherto in- 
accessible, and impervious to my anxious, weary 
f«et:-not those Parnassian crags, bleak and 
barren, where the hungry worshippers of fame 
are breathless, clambering, hanging between 
heaven and hell; but those glittering cliffs of 
Potosi, where the all- sufficient, all powerful 
deity. Wealth, holds his immediate court of joys 
and pleasures ; where the sunny exposure of 
plMity, and the hot walls of profusion, produce 
those blissful fruits of luxury, exotics in this 
world and natives of paradise! — Thou withered 
sibyl, my sage conductress, usher me into thy 
refulf ent, adored presence ! — The power, splen- 
did and potent as he now is, was once the puling 
nurpling of thy faithful care, and tender arms! 
Call me thy son, thy cousin, thy kinsman, or 
favourite, and adjure the god by the scenes of 
his infant years, no longer to repulse me as a 
stranger, or an alien, but to favour me with his 
peculiar countenance and protection ? — He daily 
bestows his greatest kindness on the undeserv- 
ing and the worthless — assure him, that I bring 
ample documents of meritorious demerits! 
Pledge yourself for me, that, for the glorious 
cause of Lucre, I will do anything, be anything 
— but the horse-leech of private oppression, or 
the vulture of public robbery ! 

But to descend from heroics. 

1 want a Shakspeare; I want likewise an 
English dictionary — Johnson's, I suppose, is 
best. In these and all my prose commissions, the 
iheapest is always the best for me. There is a 
jmall debt of honour that I owe Mr. Kobert 
Cleghorn, in Saughton Mills, my worthy friend, 
Rnd your well-wisher. Please give him, and 
urge him to take it, the first time you see him, 
ten fillings worth of anything you have to sell, 
md place it to my account. 

The library scheme that I mentioned to you, 
••S "ilready begun, under the direction of Captain 
R,adel. There is another in emulation of it 
going on at Closeburn, under the auspices of Mr. 
Monteitb ol Closeburn, which will be on a 



greater scale than our?. Capt. Riddel gave hi. 
infant society a great many of his old books, 
else I had written y( u on that subject ; bul 
one of these days, I shall trouble you with a 
commission for "The Monkland Friendly Socie 
ty" — a copy of The Spectator, Mirror, and 
Lounger, Man of Feelmg, Man of thf. World. 
Guthrie's Geographical Grammar, with some re 
ligious pieces, will likely be our first order. 

When I grow richer, I will write to you on 
gilt post, to make amends for this sheet. At 
present, every guinea has a five guinea errand 
with. My dear Sir, 

Your faithful, poor, but honest, friend, 
R. B 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

[Some lines which extend, but fail to finish the ekeUu 
contained in tliis letter, will be found elsewhere in this 
publication.] 

Ellisland, 4:th April, 1789. 

I NO sooner hit on any poetic plan or fancy, 
but I wish to send it to you : and if knowing 
and reading these give half the pleasure to you, 
that communicating them to you gives to me, I 
am satisfied. 

I have a poetic whim in my head, which I at 
present dedicate, or rather inscribe to the Right 
Hon. Charles James Fox; but how long that 
fancy may hold, I cannot say. A few of the 
first lines, I have just rough-sketched as fol 
lows : 

SKETCH. 

How Tfisdom and folly nieet, mix, and unite ; 
How virtue and vice blend their black and their 

white ; 
How genius, the illustrious father of fiction. 
Confounds rule and law, reconciles contradic 

tion — 
I sing : If these mortals, the critics, shoiilJ biin 

tie, 
I care not, not I, let the critics go whistle. 

But now for a patron, whose name and whoM 
glory, 
At once may illustrate and honour my story 

Thou first of our orators, first of our wits , 
Yet whose parts and acquirements seem iner> 
lucky hits ; 



404 



OENERAL CORRESPONDENTE 



Witli knowledge so vast, and with judgment so 

strong, 
No man with the half of 'em e'er went far 

wrong ; 
With passion so potent, and fancies so bright, 
Vo p»an with the half of 'em ere went quite 

right ; 
A sorry, poor misbegot son of the muses 
For using thy name offers fifty excuses. 

On the 20th current I hope to have the ho- 
nour of assuring you in person, how sincerely I 
am— R. B. 



CLVII. 
TO MR. WILLIAM BURNS, 

SADLER, 
CARE OF MK. WKIGHT, CARRIER, LONGTOWN. 

[" Never to despair" was a favourite saying with 
Burns : and " firm resolve," he held, with Young, to be 
"the column of true majesty in man."] 

Isle, 15th April, 1789. 
My dear William, 
I am extremely sorry at the misfortune of your 
legs ; I beg you will never let any worldly con- 
cern interfere with the more serious matter, 
the safety of your life and limbs. I have not 
time in these hurried days to write you any- 
thing other than a mere how d'ye letter. I will 
only repeat my favourite quotation : — 
"What proves the hero truly great 
Is never, never to despair." 

My house shall be your welcome home ; and as 
I know yoxir prudence (would to God you had 
resolution equal to your prudence !) if anywhere 
at a distance from friends, you should need 
money, you know my direction by post. 

The enclosed is from Gilbert, brought by your 
pister Nanny. It was unluckily forgot. Yours 
vb Gilbert goes by post. — I heard from them 
T^sterday, they are all well. 

Adieu. 

R. B, 



CLVIII. 
TO MRS. M'MURDO, 

DRUMLANRIQ. 

Of this iccomplished lady, Mrs. M'Murdo, of Drum 
nig, awl he: daughters, something has been said in the 



notes on the songs : .he poem alludea to wat thB song o. 
" Bonnie Jean."] 

Ellisland, 2d May, 1789. 
Madam, 

I HAVE finished the piece which had the happy 
fortune to be honoured with your approbation ; 
and never did little miss with more sparkling 
pleasure show her applauded sampler to partial 
mamma, than I now send my poem to you and 
Mr. M'Murdo if he is returned to Drumlanrig 
You cannot easily imagine what thin skinnei 
animals — what sensitive plants poor poets are. 
How do we shrink into the embittered corner of 
self-abasement, when neglected or condemned 
by those to whom we look up ! and how do we, 
in erect importance, add another cubit to oul 
stature on being noticed and applauded by those 
whom we honour and respect ! My late visit to 
Drumlanrig has, I can tell you. Madam, given 
me a balloon waft up Parnassus, where on my 
fancied elevation I regard my poetic self with no 
small degree of complacency. Surely with all 
their sins, the rhyming tribe are not ungrateful 
creatures. — I recollect your goodness to your 
humble guest — I see Mr. M'Murdo adding to the 
politeness of the gentleman, the kindness of a 
fiiend, and my heart swells as it would burst, 
with warm emotions and ardent wishes ! It may 
be it is not gratitude — it may be a mixed sen- 
sation. That strange, shifting, doubling ani- 
mal MAN is so generally, at best, but a negative, 
often a worthless creature, that we cannot see 
real goodness and native worth without feeling 
the bosom glow with sympathetic approbation. 
With every sentiment of grateful respect, 
I have the honour to be. 
Madam, 

Your obliged and grateful humble servant, 

R. B 



TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

[Honest Jamie Thomson, who shot the hare recauM 
she browsed with her companiona on his father'* 
"wheat-braird," had no idea he was pulling down such 
a burst of irjiignation on his head as this letter with lh« 
poem which it enclosed expresses.] 

Ellisland, Aih 3Iay, 1789. 
Mt dear Sir, 
Your duty-free favour of the 26th April I re-i 
ceived two days ago ; I will not say I perused il 
with pleasure ; that is the cold compliment of 




seremony ; I perused it, Sir, with delicious sa- 
tisfaction; — in short, it is such a letter, that not 
/ou, nor your friend, iut the legislature, by ex- 
press proviso in their postage laws, should frank. 

A letter informed with the soul of friendship 
Is such an honour to human nature, that they 
should order it free ingress and egress to and 
from their bags and mails, as an encourage- 
taen'o and mark of distinction to supereminent 
rirtue. 

I have just put the last hand to a little poem 
irhich I think will be something to your taste. 
One morning lately, as I was out pretty early 
in the fields, sowing some grass seeds, I heard 
the burst of a shot from a neighbouring planta- 
tion, and presently a poor little wounded hare 
came crippling by me. You will guess my in- 
dignation at the inhuman fellow who could shoot 
a hare at this season, when all of them have 
young ones. Indeed there is something in that 
business of destroying for our sport individuals 
in the animal creation that do not injure us ma- 
ierially, which I could never reconcile to my 
Ideas of virtue. 

Inhuman mai ! curse on thy barb'rous art. 
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye ! 
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh, 

Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart ! 
&c. &c. 

Let me know how you like my poem. I am 
doubtful whether it would* not be an improve- 
ment to keep out the last stanza but one alto- 
gether. 

Cruikshank is a glorious production of the 
author of man. You. he, and the noble Colonel 
of the Crochallan Fencibles are to me 

'*Dear as the ruddy drops which warm my heart " 

I have a good mind to make verses on you 
nil, to the tune of "Three guid fellows ayont the 
fflm." ' R. B. 



CLX, 

TO MR. SAMUEL BROWN. 

[Samuel BroMTj was brother to the poet's mother : he 
leems to have been a joyous sort of person, who loved a 
ok«, and understood double meanings.] 

Mossgiel, Uh May, 1789. 
Deak Uncle, 
This, I hope, will find you and your conjugal 
»ok;-fen )w in your g-Nod old way ; I am impa- 



tient to know if the Ailsa fowling be commenced 
for this season yet, as I want three or foul 
stones of feathers, aAd 1 hope you will bespeak 
them for me. It would be a 'vain attempt foc 
me to enumerate the various transactions i 
have been engaged in since I saw you last, bl* 
this know, — I am engaged in a smuggling truM, 
and God knows if ever uny poor man expe- 
rienced better returns, two for one, but as freight 
and delivery have turned out so dear, 1 am 
thinking of taking out a license and beginning 
in fair trade. I have taken a farm on the bor- 
ders of the Nith, and in imitation of the old 
Patriarchs, get men-servants and maid-ser- 
vants, and flocks and herds, and beget sons and 
daughters. 

Your obedient nephew, 

R. B. 



TO RICHARD BROWN. 

[Burns was much attached to Brown ; and one regioM 
that an inconsiderate word should have estranged the 
haughty sailor.] 

Mauchline, 21st May, 1789. , 
Mt dear Friend, 

I WAS in the country by accident, and hearing 
of your safe arrival, I could not resist the temp- 
tation of wishing you joy on your return, wish- 
ing you would write to me before you sail again, 
wishing you would always set me down as your 
bosom friend, wishing you long life and pros- 
perity, and that every good thing may attend 
you, wishing Mrs. Brown and your little ones 
as free of the evils of this world, as is consistent 
with humanity, wishing you and she were to 
make two at the ensuing lying-in, with which 
Mrs. B. threatens very soon to favotir me> wish 
ing I had longer time to write to you at pre- 
sent ; and, finally, wishing that if there is tc b« 
another state of existence, Mr. B., Mrs. B,, ouj 
little ones, and both families, and you and I, 
in some snug retreat, may make a jovial paitj 
to all eternity ! 

My direction is at EUisland, near Dumfries 
Yours, 

E. P 



106 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



CLXII. 

TO MR. JAMES HAMILTON. 

^James Hamilton, grocer, in Glasgow, interested hici- 
elf early in the fortunes of the poet.] 

Ellisland, 26th May, 1789. 
Dear Sib., 
I 8ENi> you by John Glover, carrier, the ac- 
idunt for Mr. TurnbuU, as I suppose you know 
his address. 

I would fain offer, my dear Sir, a word of 
lympathy with your misfortunes ; but it is a 
tender string, and I know not how to touch it. 
It is easy to flourish a set of high-flown senti- 
ments on the subjects that would give great 
satisfaction to — a breast quite at ease ; but as 
ONE observes, who was very seldom mistaken in 
the theory of life, " The heart knowethits own 
sorrows, and a stranger intermeddleth not there- 
with." 

* Among some distressful emergencies that I 
have experienced in life, I ever laid this down 
as my foundation of comfort — That he who has 
lived the life of an honest man, has by no means 
lived in vain ! 

With every wish for your welfare and future 
success, 

I am, my dear Sir, 

Sincerely yours, 

R. B. 



CLXIII. 

TO A¥ILLIAM CREECH, ESQ. 

[The poetic address to the "venomed stang" of the 
toothache seems to have come into existence about this 
time.] 



Sir, 



Ellisland, 80th May, Hi 



I HAD intended to have troubled you with a 
long letter, but at present the delightful sensa- 
tloun of an omnipotent toothache so engross all 
(;.} iuner man, as to put it out of my power 
e.eji to write nonsense. However, as in duty 
l.jund, 1 approach my bookseller with an offer- 
mg in my hand — a few poetic clinches, and a 
song: — To expect any other kind of offering 
from the Rhyming Tribe would be to know them 
much less than you do. I do not pretend that 
there is much me*it in these morceaux, but I 
have two reasons for sending them ; primo, they 
Arc mostly ill-natured, so are in unison with my 
;»resent feelings, while fifty troops of internal 



spirits are driving post fr-im ear to ear alcng 
my jaw-bones; and secondly, they are so short, 
that you cannot leave off m the middle, and s« 
hurt my pride in the idea that you found amjt 
work of mine too heavy to gel through. 

I have a request to beg of you, and I not onlj 
beg of you, but conjure you, by all your wishes 
and by all your hopes, that the muse will spar* 
the satiric wink in the moment of your foibles 
that she will warble the song of rapture rouuq 
your hymeneal couch ; and that she will shed 
on your turf the honest tear of elegiac grati' 
tude ! Grant my request as speedily as possible 
— send me by the very first fly or coach for this 
place three copies of the last edition of my 
poems, which place to my account. 

Now may the good things of prose, and the 
good things of '^erse, come among thy hands, 
until they be mled with the good things of th^ 
life, prayeth R. B 



TO MR. M'AULEY. 

[The poet made the acquaintance of Mr. M'Auley, ol 
Dumbarton, in one of his northern tours, — he was intro 
duced by his friend Kennedy.] 

Ellisland, ith June, 1789. 
Dear Sir, 

Though I am not without my fears respect- 
ing my fate, at that grand, universal inquest of 
right and wrong, commonly called The Last Day, 
yet I trust there is one sin, which that arch- 
vagabond, Satan, who I understand is to be 
king's evidence, cannot throw in my teeth, I 
mean ingratitude. There is a certain pretty 
large quantum of kindness for which I remain, 
and from inability, I fear, must still remain, 
your debtor ; but though unable to repay the 
debt, I assure you. Sir, I shall ever warmly, 
remember the obligation. It gives me the sin- 
cerest pleasure to hear by my old acquaintance, 
Mr. Kennedy, that you are, in immortal AUat s 
language, "Hale, and weel, and living;" ana 
that your charming family are well, and pro 
mising to be an amiable and respectable addi- 
tion to the company of pesformers, whom the 
Great Manager of the Drama of Man is bring- 
ing into action for the succeeding age. 

With respect to my welfare, a subject m whioh 
you once warmly and effectively interested your- 
self, I am here in my old way, holding mj 
plough, marking the growth of my corn, or tin 



OF KOBEKT BUENS. 



4o: 



health of my dairy ; and at times sauntering by 
the delightful windings of the Nith, on the mar- 
gin of whi ch I have built my humble domicile, 
prajiug for seasonable weather, or holding an 
-titrigue with the muses; the only gipsies with 
whom I have now any intercourse. As I am 
entered into the holy state of matrimony, I trust 
my fac is turned completely Zion-ward ; and 
us it is a rule with all honest fellows to repeat no 
grievances, I hope that the little poetic licenses 
of former days will of course fall under the 
oblivious influence of some good-natured statute 
of celestial prescription. In my family devo- 
tion, which, like a good Presbyterian, I occa- 
sionally give to my household folks, I am ex- 
tremely fond of that psalm, " Let not the errors 
of my youth," &c., and that other, "Lo, children 
arp God's heritage," &c% in. which last Mrs. 
Burns, wuo by thte oye ^.as » glo/ious -'wood- 
note wild" at either old song or psalmody, joins 
me irMh. the pathos of Handel's Messiah. 

E. B. 



CLXV. 

TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

[ The following high-minded letter may be regarded as 
a sermon on domestic morality preached by one of the 
experienced.] 

Ellisland, 8th June, 1789. 
My dear Friend, 
I AM perfectly ashamed of myself when I look 
aP the date of your last. It is not that I forget 
the friend of my heart and the companion of my 
peregrinations ; but I have been condemned to 
drudgery beyond sufferance, though not, thank 
God, beyond redemption. I have had a collec- 
tion of poems by a lady, put into my hands to 
prepare them for the press ; which horrid task, 
with sowing corn with my own hand, a parcel 
of masons, wrights, plasterers, &c., to attend to, 
roaming on business through Ayrshire — all this 
was against me, and the very first dreadful ar- 
ticle was ")f itself too much for me. 

' 3tt . 1 have not had a moment to spare from 
iiiccssant toil since the 8th. Life, my dear Sir, 
is A ?-*rica9 matter. Ton know by experience 
tn<i. a man's individual self is a good deal, but 
believe me, a wife and family of children, when- 
ever you have the honour to be a husband and 
a father, will show you that your present and 
{most anxious hours of solitude are spent on 
trifles. The welfare of those wi?<^ are very dear 
|> us, whose only support, hope and stay we 



are — this, to a generous mind, is another sort 
of more important object of care than any con- 
cerns whatever which centre merely in the indi- 
vidual. On the other hand, let no young, un^ 
married, rakehelly dog among you, make a 
song of his pretended liberty and freedom front 
care. If the relations we stand in to king, 
country, kindred, and friends, be anything bw 
the visionary fancies of dreaming metaphysi- 
cians ; if religion, virtue, magnanimity, gene- 
rosity, humanity and justice, be aught but empty 
sounds ; then the man who may be said to live 
only for others, for the beloved, honourable 
female, whose tender faithful embrace endears 
life, and for the helpless little innocents who are 
to be the men and women, the worshippers of 
his God, the subjects of his king, and the sup- 
port nay the v«ry vital existence of his counted 
in the ensuing uge , -coEa;)arc juc'ii a. mun wiM 
anyfellow whatever, who, whether he bustle and 
push in business among labourers, clerks, states- 
men ; or whether he roar and rant, and drink anu 
sing in taverns — a fellow over whose grave no 
one will breathe a single heigh-ho, except from 
the cobweb-tie of what is called good-fellow- 
ship — who has no view nor aim but what ter- 
minates in himself — if there be any grovelling 
earthborn wretch of our species, a- renegade to 
common sense, who would fain believe that the 
noble creature man, is no better than a sort of 
fungus, generated out of nothing, nobody knows 
how, and soon dissipated in nothing, nobody 
knows where ; such a stupid beast, such a crawl- 
ing reptile, might balance the foregoing unex- 
aggerated comparison, but no one else would 
have the patience. 

Forgive me, my dear Sir, for this long silence- 
To make you amends, . I shall send you soon, and 
more encouraging still, without any postage, 
one or two rhymes of my later manufacture. 

R B. 



TO MR. M'MURDO. 

[John M'Murdo has been already mentinneJ as cue ol 
Barns's firmest friends: his table at Drumlanrig wai 
always spread at the poet's coming : ncr was it uncheerad 
by the presence of the lady of the house and her daugli 
ters.] 

Ellisland, 19th June, 1789 
Sir, 
A POET and a beggar are, in so many pomw 
of view, alike, that one might take tnem for th« 



<.08 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



same individual character under different de- 
uignations ; were it not that though, with a 
trifling poetic license, most poets may be styled 
beggars, yet the converse of the proposition 
does not hold, that every beggar is a poet. In 
one particular, however, they remarkably agree ; 
if you help either the one or the other to a mug 
of ale, or the picking of a bone, they will very 
sjjUingly repaj you with a song. This occurs 
?c me at present, as I have just despatched a 
well-lined rib of John Kirkpatrick's Highlander ; 
a bargain for which I am indebted to you, in 
the style of our ballad printers, "Five excel- 
lent new songs." The enclosed is nearly my 
newest song, and one that has cost me some 
pains, though that is but an equivocal mark of 
its excellence. Two or three others, which I 
have by me, shall do themselves the honour to 
wait on your after leisure : petitioners for ad- 
mittance into favour must not harass the con- 
descension of their benefactor. 

You see. Sir, what it is to patronize a poet. 
'Tis like being a magistrate in a petty borough ; 
you do them the favour to preside in their coun- 
cil for one year, and your name bears the pre- 
fatory stigma of Bailie for life. 

With, not the compliments, but the best 
wishes, the sincerest prayers of the season for 
you, that you may see many and happy years 
with Mrs. M'Murdo, and your family; two 
blessings by the bye, to which your rank does 
not, by any means, entitle you ; a loving wife 
and fine family being almost the only good 
things of this life to which the farm-house and 
cottage have an exclusive right, 

I have the honour to be. 
Sir, 
Tour much indebted and very humble servant, 

R. B. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

iThe devil the p.ips, and the Pretender darkened the 
sermons, for in ire than a century, of many sound divines 
IB the north. As a Jacobite, Burns disliked to hear 
Pnr.ce Charles called the Pretender, and as a man of a 
tolerant nature, he disliked to hear the Pope treated un- 
like a gentleman : his notions regarding Satan are re- 
gorded in his inimitable address.] 



Ellisland, 2lst June, 1789. 
Dear Madam, 
Will you take the effusions, the miserable 
■jtFusions of low sjirits, just as they flow from 



their bitter spring ? T know not of any paiti. 
cular cause for this worst of all my foes beset 
ting me ; but for some time my soul has bees 
beclouded with a thickening atmosphere of evi. 
imaginations and gloomy presages. 

Monday Evening. 

I have just heard Mr. Kirkpatrick preach a 
sermon. He is a man famous for his benevo- 
lence, and I revere him; but from such ideas 
of my Creator, good Lord deliver me ! Religion, 
my honoured friend, is surely a simple business, 
as it equally concerns the ignorant and the 
learned, the poor and the rich. That there ia 
an incomprehensible Great Being, to whcm I 
owe my existence, and that he must be inti- 
mately acquainted with the operations and pro- 
gress of the internal machinery, and consequent 
outward deportmenW)f this creature which he 
has made ; these are, I think, self-evident pro- 
positions. That there is a real and eternal dis- 
tinction between virtue and vice, and conse- 
quently, that I am an accountable creature; 
that fi>om the seeming nature of the human 
mind, as well as from the evident imperfection, 
nay, positive injustice, in the administration of 
affairs, both in the natural and moral worlds, 
there must be a retributive scene of existence 
beyond the grave; must, I think, be allowed 
by every one who will give himself a moment's 
reflection. I will go farther, and affirm that 
fr«m the sublimity, excellence, and purity of hia 
doctrine and precepts, unparalleled by all the 
aggregated wisdom and learning of many pre- 
ceding ages, though, to appearance, he himself 
was the obscurest and most illiterate of our 
species ; therefore Jesus Christ was from Goa. 

Whatever mitigates the woes, or increases 
the happiness of others, this is my criterion of 
goodness ; and whatever injures society at large, 
or any individual in it, this is my measure of 
iniquity. 

What think you, madam, of my creed? I 
trust that I have said nothing that will lessen 
me in the eye of one, whose good opinion I value 
almost next to the approbation of my own mind. 

R. B. 



CLXvin. 

TO MR. — 



[The name of ^\z person to whom tho following .ettei 
is addressed is unknown : he seems, from his letter tt 
Burns to have Deen intimate witii the unfortunate poet 



OF ROBEET BURNS. 



40^) 



llo^9^t Feigusson, who, n richness of conversation and 
plenitude of fancy, reminded him, he said, of Robert 
Burns.] , 

1789. 
My D1S4.E. Sib, 

The hzTTj of a farmer in this particular sea- 
BOD, B/id Ue indolence of a poet at all times and 
seasons, will, I hope, plead my excuse for ne- 
glecting so long to answer your obliging letter 
of the 5th of August. 

That you have done well Ie quitting your la- 
borious concern in * * * *, I do not doubt ; the 
weighty reasons you mention, were, I hope, very, 
and deservedly indeed, weighty ones, and your 
health is a matter of the last importance ; but 
whether the remaining proprietors of the paper 
h-ave also done well, is what I much doubt. 
The * * * *, so far as I was a reader, exhibited 
Buch a brilliancy of point, such an elegance of 
paragraph, and such a variety of intelligence, 
that I can hardly conceive it possible to con- 
tinue a daily paper in the same degree of excel- 
lence : 1 lit if there was a man who had abilities 
equal to the task, that man's assistance the 
proprietors have lost. 

When I received your letter T was transcrib- 
mg for * * * *, my letter to the magistrates of 
the Canongate, Edinburgh, begging their per- 
mission to place a tombstone over poor Fergus- 
son, and their edict in consequence of my peti- 
tion, but now I shall send them to ***** *. 
Poor Fergusson ! If there be a life beyond the 
grave, which I trust there is ; atd if there be a 
good God presiding over all nature, which I am 
sure there is ; thou art now enjoying existence 
in a glorious world, where worth of the heart 
alone is distinction in the man ; where riches, 
deprived of.all their pleasure-purchasing powers, 
return to their native sordid matter ; where 
titles and honours are the disregarded reveries of 
an id!" dream; and where that heavy virtue, 
which .8 the negative consequence of steady 
Julness, and those thoughtless, though often 
destructive follies which are the unavoidable 
aberrations of frail human nature, will be 
thiown into equal oblivion as if they had never 
been ! 

Adieu, my dear Sir ! So soon as your present 
views and schemes are concentered in an aim, 
r shall be g;''ad to hear from you ; as your wel- 
fare and happiness is by no means a subject in- 
■ifferent to 

Yours, 

R. B. 



CLXIX. 

TO MISS WILLIAMS. 

[Helen Maria Williams acknowledged this letter, with 
the critical pencilling, on her poem on the Slave Trade, 
which it enclosed: she agreed, she said, with all hil 
objections, save one, but considered his praise toe high.] 

Ellisland, 1789. 
Madam, 

Of the many problems in the nature of that 
wonderful creature, man, this is one of the most 
extraordinary, that he shall go on from day to 
day, from week to week, from month to month, 
or perhaps from year to year, suffering a hun- 
dred times more in an hour from the impotent 
consciousness of neglecting what he ought to do, 
than the very doing of it would cost him. I am 
deeply indebted to you, first for a most elegant 
poetic compliment ; then for a polite, obliging 
letter ; and, lastly, for your excellent poem on 
the Slave Trade ; and yet, wretch that I am I 
though the debts were debts of honour, and tha 
creditor a lady, I have put off and put off even 
the very acknowledgment of the obligation, un- 
til you must indeed be the very angel I take you 
for, if you can forgive me. 

Your poem I have read with the highest plea- 
sure. I have a way whenever I read a book, I 
mean a book in our own trade. Madam, a poetic 
one, and when it is my own property, that I take 
a pencil and mark at the ends of verses, or note 
on margins and odd paper, little citicisms of 
approbation or disapprobation as I peiuse along. 
I will make no apology for presenting you with 
a few unconnected thoughts that occurred to me 
in my repeated perusals of your poem. I want 
to show you that I have honesty enough to tell 
you what I take to be truths, even when they 
are not quite on the side of approbation ; and 
I do it in the firm faith that you have equal 
greatness of mind to hear them with pleasure. 

I had lately the honour of a letter from Dr, 
Moore, where he tells me that he has sent ma 
some books : they are not yet come to hand, bul 
I hear they are on the way. 

Wishing you all success in you? progress in 
the path of fame ; and that you may equally 
escape the danger of stumbling through incau- 
tious speed, or losing ground through loitering 
neglect. R. B 



410 



GENBEAL COREESPONDEI^ CE 



TO MR. JOHN LOGAN. 

[The Kirk's Alarm, to which this letter alludes, has 
aStle of As spirit of malice and drollery, so rife in his 
earlier jo.itroversial compositions.] 

JEllisland, near Dumfries, 7th Aug. 1789. 
Dear Sir, 
I INTENDED to liavc Written you long ere now, 
;ind as I told you, I had gotten three stanzas and 
a half on my way in a poetis epistle to you ; but 
*hat old enemy of all good works, the devil, threw 
me intc a prosaic mire, and for the soul of me I 
cannot get oxit of it. I dare- not write yoxi a 
long letter, as I am going to intrude on your 
time with a long ballad. I have, as you will 
shortly see, finished " The Kirk's Alarm ;" but 
now that it is done, and that I have laughed 
oni;e 01 ..ffici at \.^.e Cu-^ceii.ci in .om. of ii^i 
stanzas, I am determined not to let it get into 
the publi<5 ; so I send you this copy, the first 
that I have sent to Ayrshire, except some few 
of the stanzas, which I wrote off in embryo for 
Gavin Hamilton, under the express provision 
and request that you will only read it to a few 
of us, and do not on any account give, or permit 
to be taken, any copy of the ballad. If I could 
be of any service to Dr. M'Gill, I would do it, 
though it should be at a much greater expense 
than irritating a few bigoted priests, but I am 
afraid serving him in his present embarras is a 
task too hard for me. I have enemies enow, 
God knows, though I do not wantonly add to the 
number. Still as I think there is some merit in 
two or three of the thoughts, I send it to you as 
a small, but sincere testimony how much, and 
Irith what respectful esteem, 

I am, dear Sir, 
Tour obliged humble servant, 

iR. B, 



CLXXI. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

[The poeti e epistle of worthy Janet Little was of small 
•seount : r<or was the advice of Or. Moore, to abandon 
tbs Scottish stanza and dialect, and adopt the measure 
RnC .angiage of modern English poetry, better inspired 
than the strains of the milkmaidj for such was Jenny 
Ciittle.] 

Mlisland, Qth Sept., 1789. 
Dear Madam, 
I HAVE mentioned in my last my appointment 
o the Excise, and the birth of little Frank ; 
who, by the bye. I trust will be no discredit to 



the honourable name of Wallace, as he has a 
fine manly countenance, and a figure that ilS^bt 
do credit to a little fellow two months older ; 
and likewise an excellent good temper, though 
when he pleases he has a pipe, only not quite 
so loud as the horn that his immortal namesake 
blew as a signal to take out the pin of Sti/ling 
bridge. 

I had some time ago an epistle, part poetiCi 
and part prosaic, irova. your poetess, Mrs. J, 
Little, a very ingenious, but modest composition. 
I should have written her as she requested, but 
for the hurry of this new business. I have heard 
of her and her compositions in this country; 
and I am happy to add, always to the honour of 
her character. The fact is, I know not well how 
to write to her : I should sit down to a sheet of 
paper that I knew not how to stain. I am no 
dixb i*c fin.^ draven letier-wdtiiig ; aad, exc-epx; 
when prompted by friendship or gratitude, or, 
.which happens extremely rarely, inspired by the 
muse (I know not her name) that presides over 
epistolary writing, I sit down, when necessitated 
to write, as I would sit down, to beat hemp. 

Some parts of your letter of the 20th August, 
struck me with the most melancholy concern 
for the state of your mind at present. 

Would I could write you a letter of comfort, 
I would sit down to it with as much pleasure, 
• as I would to write an epic poem of my own 
composition that should equal the Iliad. R,eli- 
gion, my dear friend, is the true comfort ! A 
strong persuasion in a future state of existence ; 
a proposition so obviously probable, that, set- 
ting revelation aside, every nation and people, 
so far as investigation has reached, for at least 
near four thousand years, have, in some mode 
or other, firmly believed it. In vain would we 
reason and pretend to doubt. I have myself 
done so to a very daring pitch ; but, when I re- 
flected, that I was opposing the most arden 
wishes, and the most darling hopes of good men, 
and flying in the face of all human belief, in 
all ages, I was shocked at my own conlact. 

I know not whether I have ever sent you the 
following lines, or if you have ever seen them ; 
but it is one of my favourite quotations, which 
I keep constantly by me in my progress througb 
life, in the language of the book of Job, 

" Against the day of battle and of war" — 
spoken of religion : 

" 'Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning brighli 
'Tis this, that gilds the horror oi our mgnt. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



411 



When wealth forsakes us, and when friends are few, 
When friends are faithless, or when foes pursue ; 
• Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the srnaTt, 
Disarm* afflictinn, or repels his dart; 
Within the breast bids purest raptures rise, 
Bids smiling conscience spread her cloudless skies." 

I have been busy with Zeluco. The Doctor is 
it obliging as to request my opinion of it ; and 
I have been revolving in my mind some kind of 
criticisms on novel-writing, but it is a depth be- 
yond my research. I shall however digest my 
thoughts on the subject as well as I can. Zeluco 
is a most sterling performance. 

Farewell! A Dieu, le bon Dim, je vous-com- 
R. B. 



I'O v^ArTA.i^ iixDi>£L, 



[The Whistle alluded to in thifletter was contended for 
uD the 16th of October, 1790 — the successful competitor, 
Kergusson, of Craigdarroch, was killed by a fall from his 
horse, some time after the " jovial contest."] 



SlE, 



Ellislmid, l^lh Oct., 1789. 



Big with the idea of this important day at 
Friars-Carse, I have watched the elements and 
ekies in the full persuasion that they would an- 
nounce it to the astonished world by some phe- 
nomena of terrific portent. — Yesternight until a 
very late hour did I wait with anxious horror, 
for the appearance of some comet firing half the 
sky ; or aerial armies of sanguinary Scandina- 
vians, . darting athwart the startled heavens, 
rapid as the ragged lightning, and horrid as 
those convulsions of nature that bury nations. 

The elements, however, seem to take the mat- 
ter very quietly : they did not even usher in this 
morning with triple suns and a shower of blood, 
symbolical of the three potent heroes, and the 
mighty claret-shed of the day. — For me, as 
Thomson in his Winter says of the storm — I 
shall "Hear astonished, and astonished sing" 

The whistle and the man ; I sing 
The man that won the whistle, &c. 

Here are we met, three merry boys, 
Three merry boys I trow are we ; 

And mony a night we've merry been, 
And mony mae we hope to be, 

Wha first shall rise .o gang awa, 
A I uckold coward loun is he : 



Wha last beside his chair shall fa*, 
He is the king amang us three. 

To leave the heights of Parnassus an 1 come U 
the humbJ-» vale of prose. — I have some misgiv 
ings that I take too mucli upon me, when I re 
quest you to get your guest. Sir Robert Lowrie, 
to frank the two enclosed covers for me, tlifl 
one of them to Sir William Cunningham, of 
Robertland, Bart, at Kilmarnock, — the ether ta 
Mr. Allan Masterton, Writing-Master, Edin- 
burgh. The first has a kindred claim on Si* 
Robert, as being a brother Baronet, and likewise 
a keen Foxite ; the other is one of the worthiest 
men in the world^ <ind a man of real genius ; so, 
allow me to say, he has a fraternal claim on you. 
I want them franked for to-morrow, as I cannot 
get them to the post to-night. — I shall send a 
-orviiiii; again foi thesi: in -iie e ^'ixm-^ AVh; iiinv/ 
that your head may be crowned with laurels to 
night, and free from aches to-morrow, 
I have the honour to be, Sir, 
Your deeply indebted humble Servant, 
R. B 



TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL. 



[Robert Riddel kept one of those present pests of 
society — an album — into which Burns copied the Linei 
on the Hermitage, and the Wounded Hare.] 



Sir, 



Mlisland, 1789. 



I WISH from my inmost soul it were in my 
power to give you a more substantial gratifica 
tion and return for all the ^jodness to the poet, 
than transcribing a few tif his idle rhymes. — 
However, " an old song," though to a proverb 
an instance of insignificance, is generally the 
only coin a poet has to pay with. 

If my poems which I have transcribed, aacl 
mean still to transcribe into your book, wer« 
equal to the grateful respect and high esteem I 
bear for the gentleman to whom I present theic, 
they would be the finest poems in the language. 
— As they are, they will at least be a testimonj 
with what sincerity I have the honour to be, 
Sir, 
Your devoted humlle Servant, 

R. B 



412 



GEjyEEAL COREESPONDENCB 



TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

[The ignominy of a poet becoming a gauger seems ever 
to liave been present to the mind of Burns — tiut those 
proving things ca'd wives and weans have a strong in- 
flnence on the actions of man."] 

Ellisland, 1st Nov. 1789. 
My dear Fkiend, 

1 HAD written you long ere now, could I have 
guessed where to find you, for I am sure you 
have more good sense than to waste the precious 
days of vacation time in the dirt of business 
and Edinburgh. — Wherever you are, God bless 
you, and lead you not into temptation, but de- 
liver you from evil ! 

I do not know if I have informed you that I 
am now appointed to an excise division, in the 
middle of which my house and farm lie. In 
this I was extremely lucky. Without ever hav- 
ing been an expectant, as they call their jour- 
neymen excisemen, I was directly planted down 
to all intents and purposes an officer of excise ; 
there to flourish and bring forth fruits — worthy 
of repentance. 

I know not how the word exciseman, or still 
more opprobrious, gauger, will sound in your 
ears. I too have seen the day when my auditory 
nerves would have felt very delicately on this 
subject; but a wife and children are things 
which have a wonderful power in blunting these 
kind of sensations. Fifty pounds a year for 
life, and a provision for wido^ and orphans, 
you will allow is no bad settlement for a poet. 
For the ignominy of the profession, I have the 
encouragement which I once heard a recruiting 
sergeant, give to a numerous, if not a respect- 
able audience, in the streets of Kilmarnock. — 
"Gentlemen, for your further and better en- 
couragement, I can assure you that our regi- 
ment is the most blackguard corps under the 
crown, and consequently with us an honest fel- 
low has the surest chance for preferment." 

You need not doubt that I find several very 
SIttpleasant and disagreeable circumstances in 
asy business ; but I am tired with and disgusted 
at tJie language of complaint against the evils 
of life Human existence in the most favourable 
eituaticns does not abound with pleasures, and 
has its inconveniences and ills; capricious fool- 
ish man mistakes these inconveniences and 
Ills as if they were the peculiar property of his 
particular situation; and hence that eternal 
fiskleneas, that love of change, which has ruined, 



and daily does ruin many a fine fellow, as ttbII 
as many a blockhead, and is almost, withoui 
exception, a constant source of disappointraen 
and misery. 

I long to hear from you how you go on — nol 
so much in business as in life. Are you pretty 
well satisfied with your own exertions, and to- 
lerably at ease in your internal reflectione? 
'Tis much to be a great character as a lawyes, 
but beyond comparison more to be a great 
character as a man. That you may be both the 
one and the other is the earnest wish, and that 
you will be both is the firm persuasion of. 
My dear Sir, &c. 

R. B. 



CLXXV. 

TO MR. RICHARD BROWN. . 

[With this letter closes the correspondence of Rob«rt 
Burns and Richard Brown.] 

Ellisland, 4:th November, 1789. 
I HAVE been so hurried, my ever dear friend, 
that though I got both your letters, I have no* 
been able to command an hour to answer them 
as I wished; and even now, you are to look on 
this as merely confessing debt, and craving days. 
Few things could have given me so much plea- 
sure as the news that you were once more safe 
and sound on terra firma, and happy in that 
place where happiness is alone to be found, in 
the fireside circle. May the benevolent Direc- 
tor of all things peculiarly bless you in all those 
endearing connexions consequent on the tender 
and venerable names of husband and father ! I 
have indeed been extremely lucky in getting an 
additional income of £50 a year, while, at the 
same time, the appointment will not cost me 
above £10 or £12 per annum of expenses more 
than I must have inevitably incurred. The 
worst circumstance is, that the excise diyisioa 
which I have got is so extensive, no less than 
ten parishes to ride over; and it abounds be- 
sides with so much business, that I can scarcely 
steal a spare moment. However, labour endears 
rest, and both together are absolutely neces- 
sary for the proper enjoyment of human exis- 
tence. I cannot meet you anywhere. No less 
than an order from ths Board of Excise, at 
Edinburgh, is necessary before I can have so 
much time as to meet you in Ayrshire. But do 
you come, and see rie. We must have a Boeial 



OF R013EET BURNS. 



413 



day, and perhaps kngthen it out with half the 
night, before you go again to sea. You are the 
earliest friend I now have on earth, my brothers 
excepted; and is not that an endearing circum- 
stance ? When you and I first met, we were at 
the green period of human life. The twig would 
easily take a bent, but would as easily return 
to its former state. You and I not only took a 
mutual bent, but by the melancholy, though 
strong influence of being both of the family of 
the unfortunate, we were entwined with one 
another in our growth towards advanced age ; 
and blasted be the sftcrilegious hand that shall 
attempt to undo the union ! You and I must 
have one bumper to my favourite toast, " May 
the companions of our youth be the friends of 
our old age!" Come and see me one year; I 
shall see you at Port Glasgow the next, and if 
we can contrive to have a gossiping between 
our two bed-fellows, it will be so much addi- 
tional pleasure. Mrs. Burns joins me in kind 
compliments to you and Mrs. Brown. Adieu ! 
I am ever, my dear Sir, yours, 

R. B. 



OLXXVI. 



TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ. 

[The poet enclosed in this letter to his patron in the 
Bxcise the clever verses on Captain Grose, the Kirk's 
Alarm, and the first ballad on Captain Miller's election.] 

%th December, 1789. 
Sm, 

I HAVE a good while had a wish to trouble 
you with a letter, and had certainly done it long 
ere now — but for a humiliating something that 
throws cold water on the resolutii^, as if one 
should say, "Yoa have found Mr. Graham a 
very powerful and kind friend indeed, and that 
interest he is so kindly taking in your concerns, 
fou ought by everything in your power to keep 
alive an I cherish." Now though since God has 
thought proper to make one powerful and an- 
other helpless, the connexion of obliger and 
obliged is all fair ; and though my being under 
your patronage is to me highly honourable, yet, 
.3tr, allow me to flatter myself, that, as a poet 
%ui an honest man you first interested yourself 
in my welfare, and principally as such, still you 
permit me to approach you. 

I have found the excise business go on a great 
ieal sme other with me tb^n I expected ; owing 



a good deal to the generous friendship Cif Mr 
Mitchel, my collector, and the kind assistance 
of Mr. Findlater, my supervisor. I dare to be 
honest, and I fear no labour. Nor do I find mj 
hurried life greatly inimical to my correspon 
dence with the muses. Their visits to me, 
indeed, and I believe to most of their acquain 
tance, like the visits of good angels, are shorl 
and far between: but I meet them now and 
then as I jog through the hills of Nithsdale, 
just as I used" to do on the banks of Ayr. 1 
take the liberty to enclose you a few bagatelles, 
all of them the productions of my leisure 
thoughts in my excise rides. 

If you know or have ever seen Captain Grose, 
the antiquarian, you will enter into any humour 
that is in the verses on him. Perhaps you 
have seen them before, as I sent them to a Lon- 
don newspaper. Though I dare say you have 
none of the solemn-league-and-covenant fire, 
which shone so conspicuous in Lord George 
Gordon, and the Kilmarnock weavers, yet I 
think you must have heard of Dr. M'Gill, one 
of the clergymen of Ayr, and his heretical 
book. God help him, poor man! Though he 
is one of the worthiest, as well as one of the 
ablest of the whole priesthood of the Kirk of 
Scotland, in every sense of that ambiguous 
term, yet the poor Doctor and his numerous 
family are in iiiiminent danger of being thrown 
out to the mercy of the winter-wkids. The en- 
closed ballad on that business is, I confess, too 
local, but I laughed myself at%ome conceits 
in it, though I am convinced in my conscience 
that there are a good many heavy stanzas in it 
too. 

The election ballad, as you will see, alludei 
to the present canvass in our string of borougha. 
I do not believe there will be such a hard-run 
match in the whole general election. 

I am too little a man to have any political at 
tachments ; I am deeply indebted to, and have the 
warmest veneration for, individuals of both par- 
ties ; but a man who has it in his power to be 
the father of his country, and who * * •« * *,, 
is a character that one cannot speak of xah 
patience. 

Sir J. J. does " what man can do," but yet I 
doubt his fate. 



<u 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



CLxxvn. 

TO MRS. DtlNLOP. 

iUurns was often a prey to lowness of spirits ; at this 
some dull men have marvelled; but the dull have no 
aisg^ivings : they go blindly and stupidly on, like a horse 
in a mill, and have none of the sorrows or joys which 
genius is heir to.] 

Ellisland, IZth Decemler, 1789. 
Many thanks, dear Madam, for your sheet- 
full of rhymes. Though at present I am below 
the veriest prose, yet from you everything 
pleases. I am groaning under the miseries of 
a diseased nervous system ; a system, the state 
of ■which is most conducive to our happiness — or 
the most productive of our misery. For now 
near three weeks I have been so ill with a nerv- 
ous head-ache, that I have been obliged for a 
time to give up my excise-books, being scarce 
able to lift my head, much less to ride once a 
week over ten muir parishes. What is man?— 
To-day in the luxuriance of health, exulting in 
the enjoyment of existence ; in a few days, per- 
haps in a few hours, loaded with conscious pain- 
ful being, counting the tardy pace of the linger- 
ing moments by the repercussions of anguish, 
and refusing or denied a comforter. Day fol- 
lows night, and night comes after day, only to 
curse him with life which gives him no plea- 
sure ; and yet the awful, dark termination of 
that life is something at which he recoils. 
" Tell us, ye dead ; will none of you in pity 

Disclose the secret 

What His you are, and we must shortly be ? 

'tis no matter: 

A little time ^vill make us learn'd as you are^'l 
Can it be possible, that 'when I resign this 
frail, feverish being, I shall still find myself in 
conscious existence? When the last gasp of 
agony has announced that I am no more to those 
that knew me, and the few who loved me ; when 
the cold, stiffened, unconscious, -ghastly corse is 
resigned into the earth, to be the prey of un- 
eigbily reptiles, and to become in time a trodden 
zlod, shall I be yet warm in life, seeing and seen, 
enjoying and enjoyed? Ye venerable sages and 
holy flamens, is there probability in your conjec- 
tnres, truth in your stories, of another world 
beyond death ; or are they all alike, baseless 
visions, and fabricated fables ? If there is an- 
»ther life, it must be only for the just, the bene- 
t^olent, the amiable, and the humane ; what a 
lattering idea, then, is a world to come ! Would 

1 1 air'i Ora^a 



to. God I as firmly believed it, as I ardently wisk 
it! There I should meet an aged parent, now 
at rest from the many buffetings of an e-vU ' 
world, against which he so long and so bravely 
struggled. There should I meet the friend, thf 
disinterested friend of my early life ; the maa 
who rejoiced to see me, because he loved me 
and could serve me. — Muir, thy weaknesses were 
the aberrations of human nature, but thy heart 
glowed with everything generous, manly and 
noble ; and if ever emanation from the All-good 
Being animated a human form, it was thine ! 
There should I, with speechless agony of rap- 
ture, again recognise my lost, my ever dear 
Mary! whose bosom was fraught with truth, 
honour, constancy, and love. 
" My Mary, dear departed shade! 

Where is thy place of heavenly rest ? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?" 

Jesus Christ, thou- amiablest of characters! ■* 
trust thou art no impostor, and that thy reve- 
lation of blissful scenes of existence beyond 
death and the grave, is not one of the many 
impositions which time after time have been 
palmed on credulous mankind. I trust that in 
thee "shall all the families of the earth be 
blessed," by being yet connected together in a 
better world, where every tie that bound heart 
to heart, in this state of existence, shall be, fai 
beyond our present conceptions, more endearing. 

I am a good deal inclined to think with those 
who maintain, that what are called nervous af- 
fections are in fact diseases of the mind, lean- 
not reason, I cannot think; and but to you I 
would not venture to write anything aM-^e an 
order to a cobbler. You have felt too much of 
the ills of life not to sympathise with a diseased 
wretch, who has impaired more than half of any 
faculties he possessed. Your goodness will 
excuse this distracted scrawl, which the writer 
dare scarcely read, and which he would thron 
into the fire, were he able to write anythiag 
better, or indeed anything at all. 

Rumour told me something of a son of ycirs, 
who was returned from the East or West Indies- 
If you have gotten news from James or An- 
thony, it was cruel in you not to let me know 
as I promise you on the sincerity of a man, who 
is weary of one world, and anxious about an- 
other, that scarce anything could give me sc 
much pleasure as to hear of any good thing b*« 
falling my honoured friend 



OF ROBEKT BURxVS. 



m 



If yon haTC a minute's leisure, take up your I 
pen in pity to lepauvre miserable. 

R. B. 



TO LAEY W[INIFRED] M[AXWELL] 
CONSTABLE. 

[The Lady Winifred Maxwell, the last of the old line 
ef Nithsdalo, was granddaughter of that Earl who, in 
1'15, made an almost miraculous escape from death, 
through the spirit and fortitude of his countess, a lady of 
»he ncibla family of Powis.] 

EUisland, IQth December, 1789. 
My Lady, 
In vain haye I from day to day expected to 
hear from Mrs. Young, as she promised me at 
Dalswinton that she would do me the honour to 
introduce me at Tinwald ; and it was impossible, 
not from your ladyship's accessibility, but from 
toy own feelings, that I could go alone. Lately 
indeed, Mr. Maxwell of Carruchen, in his usual 
goodness, offered to accompany me, when an 
unlucky indisposition on my part hindered my 
embracing the opportunity. To court the notice 
or the tables of the great, except where I some- 
times have had a little matter to ask of them, 
or more often the pleasanter task of witnessing 
my gratitude to them, is what I never have 
done, and I trust never shall do. But with your 
ladyship I have the honour to be connected by 
one of the strongest and most endearing ties in 
the whole moral world. Common sufferers, in 
a cause where even to be unfortunate is glorious, 
the cause of heroic loyalty ! Though my fathers 
had not illustrious honours and vast properties 
to hazard in the contest, though they left their 
humble cottages only to add so many units 
more to the unnoted crowd that followed their 
leaders, yet what they could they did, and what 
they had they lost; with unshaken firmness and 
unconcealed political attachments, they shook 
hands with ruin for what they esteemed the cause 
of thoir king and their country. The language 
and the enclosed verses are for your ladyship's 
eye alone. Poets are not very famous for their 
prudence ; but as I can do nothing for a cause 
which is now nearly no more, I do not wish to 
liurt myself. 

I have the honour to be, 

My lady, 
chip's ob iged and obedient 

Humble servant, 
R. B. 



CLXXIX. 
TO PROVOST MAXWELL, 

OF LOCHMABKH. 

[Of Loehmaben, the " Marjory of the mony Lochs" of 
the election ballads, Maxwell was at this lime provasfc 
a post more of honour than of labour.] 

EUisland, 20ih December, 1789. 
Dear Provost, 

As my friend Mr. Graham goes for your goo(J 
town to-morrow, I cannot resist the temptation 
to send you a few lines, and as I have nothing 
to say I have chosen this sheet of foolscap, and 
begun as you see at the top of the first page, 
because I have ever observed, that when once 
people have fairly set out they know not where 
to stop. Now that my first sentence is conclud- 
ed, I have nothing to do but to pray heaven to 
help me on to another. Shall I write you on 
Politics or Religion, two master subjects for 
your sayers of nothing. Of the first I dare say 
by this time you are nearly surfeited : and for 
the last, whatever they may talk of it, who 
make it a kind of company concern, I nevei 
could endure it beyond a soliloquy. I might 
write you on farming, on building, or market- 
ing, but my poor distracted mind is so torn, so 
jaded, so racked and bediveled with the task of 
the superlative damned to make one guinea do 
the business of three, that I detest, abhor, and 
swoon at the very word business, though no less 
than four letters of my very short sirname are 
in it. 

Well, to make the matter shori, I shall be- 
take myself to a subject ever fruitful of themes ; 
a subject the turtle-feast of the sons of Satan, 
and the delicious secret sugar-plum of the babes 
of grace — a subject sparkling with all the jewels 
that wit can find in the mines of genius : and 
pregnant with all the stores of learning from 
Moses and Confucius to Franklin and Priestley 
— ^in short, may it please your Lordship, T intend 
to write * * * 

\_ffere the Poet inserted a song which can ^nly ht 
sung at times when the punch-bowl has done its dutj 
and wild wit is setfree.'\ 

If at any time you expfect a field-day in youi 
town, a day when Dukes, Earls, and Knights 
pay their court to weavers, tailors, and cobblers, 
I should like to know of it two or three days be 
forehand. It is not that I care three skips of a 
cur dog for the politics, but T should like t-« pe« 



416 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCjs 



Buch an exhibition of human nature. If you 
meet with that worthy old veteran in religion 
and good-fellowship, Mr. Jeffrey, or any of his 
amiable family, I beg you will give them my best 
oompliments. R. B. 



CLXXX. 



TO SIR JOHN SINCLAIR. 

[Of the Monkland Book-Club alluded to in this letter, 
the clergyman had omitted al. mention in his account of 
the Parish of JDunscore, publishr>d in Sir John Sinclair's 
work: some of the books which the poet introduced were 
Btigmatized as vain and frivolous.] 

1790. 

Sm, 

The following circumstance has, I believe, 
been committed in the statistical account, trans- 
mitted to you of the parish of Dunscore, in 
Nithsdale. I beg leave to send it to you because 
it is new, and may be useful. How far it is de- 
serving of a place in your patriotic publication, 
you are the best judge. 

To store the minds of the lower classes with 
useful knowledge, is certainly of very great im- 
portance, both to them as individuals and to 
society at large. Giving them a turn for read- 
ing and reiJection, is giving them a source of in- 
nocent and landable amusement; and besides, 
raises them to a more dignified degree in the 
scale of rationality. Impressed with this idea, 
ft gentleman in this parish, Robert Pdddel, Esq., 
of Glenriddel, set on foot a species of circulat- 
ing library, on a plnn so simple as to be practi- 
cable in any corner of the country ; and so 
useful, as to deserve the notice of every country 
gentleman, who thinks tlie improvement of that 
part of his own species, whom chance has 
thrown into the humble walks of the peasant 
and the artisan, a matter worthy of his atten- 
tion. 

Mr. Riddel got a number of his own tenants, 
and farming neighbours, to form tliemselves into 
a society for the purpose of having a library 
among themselves. They entered into a legal 
engagement to abide ly it for three years ; witn 
a saving clause or two in case of a removal to a 
iistance, or death. Each member, at his entry, 
paid five shillings ; and at each of their meetings, 
which were held every fourth Saturday, six- 
pence more. With their entry-money, and the 
credit which they took on the faith of their 
future funds, they laid in a tolerable stock of 



books at the commencement. What authari 
they were to purchase, was always decided by 
the majority. At every meeting, all the books, 
under certain fines and forfeitures, by way cf 
penalty, were to be produced ; and the mem 
bers had their choice of the volumes in rotation. 
He whose name stood for that night first on 
the list, had his choice of what volume He 
pleased in the whole collection ; the second had 
his choice after the first; the third after the 
second, and so on to the last. At next meeting, 
he who had been first on the list at the preced- 
ing meeting, was last at this ; he who had been 
second was first ; and so on through the whole 
three years. At the expiration of the engage- 
ment the books were sold by auction, but only 
among the members themselves ; each man had 
his share of the common stock, in money or in 
books, as he chose to be a purchaser or not. 

At the breaking up of this little society, whiob 
was formed under Mr. Riddel's patronage, what 
with benefactions of books from him, and what 
with their own purchases, they had collected to 
gether upwards of one hundred and fifty volumes. 
It will easily be guessed, that a good deal of trash 
would be bought. Among the books, however 
of this little library, were, Blair's Sermons, Ro 
bertson's History of Scotland, Hume's History oj 
the Stexvarts, The Spectator, Idler, Adventurer, 
Mirror, Lounger, Observer, Man of Feeling, Man 
of the World, Chrysal, Don Quixote, Joseph An 
drews, &c. A peasant who can read, and enjoj 
such books, is certainly a much superior beinj 
to his neighbour, who perhaps stalks beside hia 
team, very little removed, except in shape, from 
the brutes he drives. 

Wishing your patriotic exertions their so much 
merited success, 

I am, Sir, 

Your humble servant, 

A Peasant 



TO CHARLES SHARPE, ESQ., 

OF HODDAM. 

[The family of Hoddam is of old standing in Nithsdaie 
it has mingled blood with some of the noblest Scottien 
names; nor is it unknown either in history or literature 
— the fierce knight of Closeburn, who m the scuffle be- 
tween Bruce and Comyne drew his sword and mad* 



OF EGBERT BLRNS. 



417 



'« sicke:." and my friend Charles KirkpatrickSharpe, are 
■ot the least distinguished of its members.] 

[1790.] 
It is true, Sir, you are a gentleman of rank 
and fortune, and I am a poor devil : you are a 
feather in the cap of society, and I am a very 
hobnail in his shoes ; yet I have the honour to 
belong to the same family with you, and on that 
Bcore I now address you. You will perhaps 
suspect that I am going to claim affinity with 
the ancient and honourable house of Kirkpa- 
trick. No, no, Sir : I cannot indeed be properly 
said to belong to any house, or even any province 
or kingdom; as my mother, who, for many years 
^as spc'ise to a marching regiment, gave me into 
<his bad world, aboard the packet-boat, some- 
where between Donaghadee and Portpatrick. 
By our common family, I mean, Sir, the family 
Df the muses. I am a fiddler and a poet ; and 
you, I am told, play an exquisite violin, and have 
a standard taste in the Belles Lettres. The 
other day, a brother catgut gave me a charming 
Scots air of your composition. If I was pleased 
with the tune, I was in raptures with the title 
you have given it ; and taking up the idea I 
have spun it into the three stanzas enclosed. 
Will you allow me. Sir, to present you them, as 
the dearest offering that a misbegotten son of 
poverty and rhyme has to give ? I have a long- 
ing to take you by the hand and unburthen my 
heart by saying, " Sir, I honour you as a man 
who supports the dignity of human nature, amid 
an age when frivolity and avarice have, between 
them, debased us below the brutes that perish !" 
But, alas, Sir ! to me you are unapiDroachable. 
It is true, the muses baptized me in Castalian 
streams, but the thoughtless gipsies forgot to 
give m« a name. As the sex have served 
many a good fellow, theJSTine have given me a 
great deal of pleasure, but, bewitching jades! 
they have beggared me. Would they but spare 
me a little of their cast-linen ! Were it only in 
my power to say that I have a shirt on my 
back ! but the idle wenches, like Solomon's 
lilies, " they toil not, neither do they spin ;" so 
I must e'en continue to tie my remnant of a 
cravat, like the hangman's rope, round my 
naked throat, and coax my galligaskins to keep 
together their many-coloured fragments. As 
to the affair of shoes, I have given that up. 
My pilgrimages in my ballad-trade, from town 
to town, and on your stony-hearted turnpikes 
too, are what not even the hide of Job's Behe- 
moth could bear. The coat on my back is no 
27 



more : I shall not speak evil of the dead. It 
would be equally unhandsome and ungrateful 
to find fault with my old surtout, which so 
kindly supplies and conceals the want of that 
coat. My hat indeed is a great favourite ; and 
though I got it literally for an old song, I would 
not exchange it for the best beaver in Britain 
I was, during several years, a kind of fac-totuw 
servant to a country clergyman, -where I jickt 
up a good many scraps of learning, particularly 
in some branches of the mathematics. When- 
ever I feel inclined to rest myself on my way, 
I take my seat under a hedge, laying my poetic 
wallet on the one side, and my fiddle-case on 
the other, and placing my hat between my legs, 
I can, by means of its brim, or lather brims, 
go through the whole doctrine of the conic 
sections. 

However, Sir, don't let me mislead you, as 
if I would interest your pity. Fortune has so 
much forsaken me, that she has taught me to 
Live without her ; and amid all my rags and 
poverty, I am as independent, and much more 
happy, than a monarch of the world. Accord- 
ing to the hackneyed metaphor, I value the 
several actors in the great drama of life, simply 
as they act their parts. I can look on a worth- 
less fellow of a duke with unqualified contempt, 
and can regard an honest scavenger with sin- 
cere respect. As you, Sir, go through your 
role with such distinguished merit, permit m^ 
to make one in the chorus of universal applause, 
and assure you that with the highest respect, 
I have the honour to be, &c., 

Johnny Faa. 



CLXXXII. 

TO MR. GILBERT BURW^ 

[In the few fierce words of this letter the poet tw» 
adieu to all hopes of wealth trom Ellisland.] 

Ellisland, llih January, 1790. 
Dear Brothte,, 
I MEAN to take advantage of the frank, though 
I have not, in my present frame of mind, much 
appetite for exertion in writing. My nerves are 
in a cursed state. I feel that horrid hypochon- 
dria pervading every atom of both body andl 
soul. This farm has undone my enjoyment of 
myself. It is a ruinous affair on all hands 



118 



GENERAL COERESPONDENCE 



But let it go to hell ! I'll fight it out and be ofF 
with it. 

We have gotten a set of very decent players 
ftere just now. I have seen them an evening or 
two. David Campbell, in Ayr, wrote to me by 
the manager of the company, a Mr. Sutherland, 
who is a man of apparent worth. On New- 
year-day evening I gave him the following pro- 
Lg'ie, which he spouted to his audience with 
applause. 

No song nor dance I bring from yon great city, 
That queens it o'er our taste — the more's the 

pity: 
Tho', by the bye, abroad why will you roam ? 
Good sense and taste are natives here at home. 

I can no more. — If once I was clear of this 
cursed farm, I should respire more at ease. 

R. B. 



CLXXXIII. 



TO MR. SUTHERLAND, , 

PLATER. 
ENCLOaING A PROLOGtTE. 

[When the farm failed, the poet sought pleasure m the 
plaj'house : he tried to retire from his own harassing re- 
flections, into a world created by other minds.] 

Monday Morning. 
I WAS' much disappointed, my dear Sir, in 
wanting your most agreeable company yester- 
day. However, I heartily pray for good wea- 
ther next Sunday ; and whatever aerial Being 
has the guidance of the elements, may take any 
other half-dozen of Sundays he pleases, and 
elothe them with 

'< Vapours and clouds, and storms, 
Un';il he terrify himself 
A combustion of his own raising." 

I shall see you pu Wednesday forenoon. In 
Ike greatest hurry, R". B. 



. OLXXXIV. 

TO WILLIAM DUNBAR, W. S. 

[This letter was first published by tli« Ettiick Shep- 
herd, in his edition of Burns : it is remarkable for this 
lentence, " I am resolved never to breed up a son of 
mine to any of the learned professions : I know the value 
of ulef endence, and since I cannot give my sons an inde- 
iflndenJ f» tune, I sl^^l give them an independent line of 



life." We may look round us and inquire m hich Jine of 
life the poet could possibly mean.] 

Mlisland, \ith Januury, 1790. 

Since we are here creatures of a day, since 
" a few summer days, and a few winter nights, 
and the life of man is at an end," why, my doaj 
much-esteemed Sir, should you and I let BegU 
gent indolence, for I know it is nothing w^rsfl 
step in between us and bar the enjoyment jf a 
mutual Correspondence? We are not shapen 
out of the common, heavy, methodical clod, the 
elemental stuff of the plodding selfish race, ♦^he 
sons of Arithmetic and Prudence ; oiir feelinga 
and hearts are not benumbed and poisoned by 
the cursed influence of riches, which, whatever 
blessing they may be in other respectSj are no 
friends to the nobler qualities of the heart : in 
the name of random sensibility, then, let never 
the moon change on our silence any more. I 
have had a tract of bad health most part of this 
winter, else you had, heard from me long ere 
now. Thank Heaven, I am now got eo much 
better as to be able to partake a little in the en- 
joyments of life. 

Our friend Cunningham will, perhaps, have 
told you of my going into the Excise. The truth 
is, I found it a very convenient business to have 
£60 per annum, nor have I yet felt any of those 
mortifying circumstances in it that I was led to 
fear. 

Feb. 2. 

I have not, for sheer hurry of business, been 
able to spare five minutes to finish my letter. 
Brides my farm business, I ride on my ExcisP 
matters at least two hundred miles every week. 
I have not by any means given up the muses. 
You will see in the 3d /ol. of Johnson's Scots 
songs that I have contributed my mite there. 

But, my dear Sir, little ones that look up to 
you for paternal protection are an important 
charge. .1 have already two fine, healthy, stout 
little fellows, and I wish to throw some light 
upon them. I have a thousand reveries and 
schemes about them, and their future destiny. 
Not that I am a Utopian projector in theew 
things. I am resolved never to breed up a eon 
of mine to any of the learned professions, I 
know the value of independence ; and .since I 
caniiot give my sons an independent fortune, I 
shall give them an independent line of life 
What a chaos of hurry, chance, and changes i» 
this world, when one sits soberly down to reflect 
on it! To a father, who himself knows th« 
•world, the thought that he shall have snns U 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



414. 



asher into it mn?* 'il him with dreaid ; but if he 
have daughter", 'he prospect in a thoughtful 
moraent is apt to '-hock him. 

I hop" Mrs. Fordyce and the two young ladies 
are well Do let me forget that they are nieces 
of yours, and let me say that I never saw a more 
interesting, sweeter pair of sisters in my life. 
I am the fool of my feelings and attachments. 
I often take up a volume of my Spenser to realize 
you to my imagination, and think over the so- 
cial scenes we have had together. God grant 
chit there may be another world more congenial 
to honest fello-^s beyond this. A world where 
these rubs and plagues of absence, distance, mis- 
fortunes, ill-health, &c., shall no more damp 
hilarity and divide friendship. This I know is 
your throng season, but half a page will much 
oblige, ' 

My dear Sir, 

Yours sincerely, 

E. B. 



CLXXXV. 

TO MRS. DUN LOP. ' 

j^alconer, the poet, whom Burns mentions here, per- 
shed in the Aurora, in which he acted as purser : he was 
a satirist of no mean power, and wrote that useful work, 
the Marine Dictionary: but his fame depends upon " The 
Shipwreck," one of the most original and mournful 
poems in the language.] 

ElUsland, 25th January, 1790. 

It has been owing to unremitting hurry of 
business that I have not written to you, Madftm, 
long ere now. My health is greatly better, 
and I now begin once more to share in satis- 
faction and enjoyment with the rest of my fellow- 
creatures. 

Many thanks, my much-esteemed friend, for 
your kind letters ; but why will you make me 
run the risk, of being contemptible and merce- 
nary in my own eyes ? When I pique myself on 
Buy independent spirit, I hope it is neither poetic 
license, nor poetic rant; and I am so flattered 
with the honour you have done me, in making 
rae your compeer in friendship and friendly cor- 
respondence, that I cannot without pain, and a 
liegree of mortification, be reminded of the real 
inequality between our situations. 

M5st sincerely do I rejoice with you, dear 
Madam, in the good news of Anthony. Not 



5 The ballad is in the Minstrelsy of t 
Id Igaft vo '.ii-'p, 304. 



) Scottish Border, 



only your anxiety about his fate, but my owt 
esteem for such a noble, warm-hearted, manl;y 
young fellow, in the little I had of his ac- 
quaintance, has interested me deeply in hit 
fortunes. 

Falconer, the unfortunate author of the "Ship 
wreck," which you so much admire, is no more 
After witnessing the dreadful catastrophe he *T 
feelingly describes in his poem, and after wea 
thering many hard gales of fortune, he weuttc 
the bottom with the Aurora frigate ! 

1 forget what part of Scotland had the honour 
of giving him birth ; but he was the son of ob- 
scurity and misfortune. He was one of those 
daring adventurous spirits, which Scotland, be- 
yond any other country, is remarkable for pro- 
ducing. Little does the fond mother think, as 
she hangs delighted over the sweet little leech 
at her bosom, where the poor fellow may here- 
after wander, and what may be his fate. I rC' 
member a stanza in an old Scottish ballad, 
which, notwithstanding its rude simplicity 
speaks feelingly to the heart : 

•' Little did my mother thmk. 

That day she cradled me, 
What land I was to travel in. 

Or what death I should die !"i 

Old Scottish song are, you know, a favourite 
study and pursuit of mine, and now I am on 
that subject, allow me to give you two stanzas 
of another old simple ballad, which I am sura 
will please you. The catastrophe of the piece 
is a poor ruined female, lamenting her fate. 
She concludes with this pathetic wish : — 

'< O that ray father had ne'er on iHe smil'd ; 

O that my mother had ne'er to me sung ! 
O that my cradle had never been rock'd j 

But that I had died when I was young i 
O that the grave it were my bed ; 

My blankets were my winding sheet ; 
The clocks and the worms my bedfellows a' ) 

And O sae sound as I should sleep !" 

I do not remember in all my reading, to have 
met with anything more truly the language of 
misery, than the exclamation in the last Hue. 
Misery is like love ; to speak its language truly, 
the author must have felt it. 

I am every day expecting the doctor to giv« 
your little godson^ the small-pox. They aro 
rife in the country, and 1 tremble for his fat«. 
By the way, I cannot help congratulating yoa 
on his looks and spirit. Every person who seen 

2 The bard's second son, Francis. 



420 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



him, acknowledges him to be the finest, hand- 
Bomest child he has ever seen. I am myself de- 
lighted with the manly swell of his little chest, 
and a certain miniature dignity in the carriage 
of his head, and the glance of his fine black eye, 
which promise the undaunted gallantry of an 
^dependent mind. 

J thought tc have sent you some rhymes, but 
tme forbids. I promise you poetry until you 
are tired of it, next time I have the honour of 
assuring you how truly I am, &c. 

R. B. 



CLXXXVI. 
TO MR. PETER HILL, 

BOOKSELLER, EDINBURGH. 

[The Mademoiselle Burns -whom the pjei inqinres 
about, was one of the " ladies of the CanongateJ" who 
desired to introduce free trade in her profession into a 
close borough : this was refused by the magistrates of 
Edinburgh, though advocated with much eloquence and 
humour in a letter by her namesake — it is coloured too 
Btrongly with her calling to be published.] 

EUisland, 2d Feb., 1790. 
No ! I will not say one word about apologies 
or excuses for not writing. — I am a poor, ras- 
cally gaiiger, condemned to gallop at least 200 
miles evei'y week to inspect dirty ponds and 
yeasty barrels, and where can I find time to 
write to, or importance to interest anybody ? 
the upbraidings of my conscience, nay the up- 
braidings of my wife, have persecuted me on 
your account these two or three months past. — 
I wish to God I was a great man, that my cor- 
respondence might throw light upon you, to let 
the world see what you really are : and then I 
would make your fortune without putting my 
hand in my pocket for you, which, like all other 
great men, I suppose I would avoid as much as 
Jiossible. What are you doing, and how are 
f on doing ? Have you lately seen any of my few 
friends? What is become of the borough re- 
poem, or how is the fate of my poor namesake, 
Mademoiselle Burns, decided ? man ! but for 
thee and thy selfish appetites, and dishonest 
artifices, that beauteous form, and that once 
innocent and still ingenuous mind, might have 
Bhone conspicuous and lovfciy in the faithful 
mfe, and the affectionate mother ; and shall 
the unfortunate sacrifice to thy pleasures have 
do claim on thy humanity ! 



I saw lafely in a Review, some extracts froM 
a new poem, called the Village Curate ; send il 
me. I want likewise a cheap copy of Th» 
World. Mr. Armstrong, the young poet, whc 
does me the honour to mention me so kindly in 
his works, please give him my best thanks for the 
copy of his book — I shall write him, ny firsl 
leisure hour. I like his poetry much, but I 
think his style in prose quite astonishing. 

Your book came safe, and I am going to 
trouble you with further commissions. I call 't 
troubling you, — because 'I want only, books ; 
the cheapest way, the best ; so you may have 
to hunt for them in the evening awctions. I 
want Smollette's works, for the sake of his in- 
comparable humour. I have already Roderick 
Random, and Humphrey Clinker. — Peregrine 
Pickle, Launcelot Greaves, and Ferdinand 
Count Fathom, I still want ; but as I said, the 
veriest ordinary copies will serve me. I am 
nice only in the appearance of my poets. I 
forget the price of Cowper's Poems, but, I be- 
lieve, I must have them: I saw the other day*' 
proposals for a publication, entitled "Banks's 
new and complete Christian's Family Bible," 
printed for C. Cooke, Paternoster-row, Lon Ion. 
— He promises at least, to give in the work, I 
think it is three hundred and odd engravings, to 
which he has put the names of the first artists 
in London. — You will know the character of the 
performance, as some numbers of it are pub- 
lished ; and if it is really what it pretends to 
be. set me down as a subscriber, and send me 
the published numbers. 

Let me hear from you, your first leisure 
minute, and trust me you shall in future have no 
reason to complain of my silence. The dazzling 
perplexity of novelty will dissipate and leave 
me to pursue my course in the quiet path of 
methodical routine. ^. B 



CLXXXVIl. 

TO MR. W. NICOL. 

[The poet has recorded this unlooked-for death of th« 
Dominie's mare in some hasty verses, whicii are nol 
much superior to the subject.] 

EUisland, Feb. %th, 1790. 
My dear Sib, 
That d-mned mare of yours is dead I would 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



42 i 



Jreely have given her price to have Baved her ; 
Rhe has vexed me beyond description. Indebted 
as I was to your goodness beyond what I can 
ever repay, I eagerly grasped at your offer to 
have the mare with me. That I might at least 
show my readiness in wishing to be grateful, I 
took every care of her in my power. She was 
never crossed for riding above ha^a score of 
times by me or in my keeping. I drew her in 
the plough, one of three, for one poor week. I 
refused fifty-five shillings for her, which was 
*,he highest bode I could squeeze for her. I fed 
her up aud had her in fine order for Dumfries 
t'air ; when four or five days before the fair, 
she was seized with an unaccountable disorder 
in the sinews, or somewhere in the bones of the 
neck ; with a weakness or total want of power 
in her fillets, and in short the whole vertebrse 
of her spine seemed to be diseased and un- 
hinged, and in eight-and-forty hours, in spite 
of the two best farriers in the country, she died 
and be d-mned to her ! The farriers said that 
she had been quite strained in the fillets be- 
yond cure before you had bought her ; and that 
the poor devil, though she might keep a little 
flesh, had been jaded and quite worn out with 
fatigue and oppression. While she was with me, 
she was under my own eye, and I assure you, 
Qiy much valued friend, everything was done 
for her that could be done ; and the accident 
has vexed me to the heart. In fact I could not 
pluck up spirits to write to you, on account of 
the unfortunate business. 

There is little new in this country. Our the- 
atrical company, of which you must have heard, 
leave us this week. — Their merit and character 
are indeed very great, both on the stage and in 
private life ; not a worthless creature among 
them ; and their encouragement has been ac- 
cordingly. Their usual run is from eighteen to 
iwenty-five pounds a night: seldom less than 
the one, and the house will hold no more than 
the other. There have been repeated instances 
cf sending away six, and eight, and ten pounds 
8 night for want of room. A new theatre is to 
be built by subscription ; the first stone is to be 
laid on Friday first to come. Three hundred 
guineas have been raised by thirty subscribers, 
and thirty more might have been got if wanted. 
The manager, Mr. Sutherland, was introduced 
io me by a friend from Ayr ; and a worthier or 
ileverer fellow I have rarely met with. Some 
»f our clergy have slipt in by stealth now anl 



then ; but they have got up a farce of their own 
You must have heard how the Rev. Mr. Lawson 
of Kirkmahoe, seconded by the Rev. Mr. Kirk- 
patrick of Dunscore, and the rest of that fac- 
tion, have accused in formal process, the an- 
fortunate and Rev. Mr. Heron of Eirkgunz&ta, 
that in ordaining Mr. Nielsen to the cure af 
souls in Kirkbean, he, the said Heron, fekni 
ously and treasonably bound the said Nielsen U 
the confession of faith, so far as it was agreeahli 
to reason and the tvord of God ! 

i\Irs. B. begs to be remembered most grate- 
fully to you. Little Bobby and Frank are 
charmingly well and healthy. I am jaded to 
death with fatigue. For these two or three 
months, on an average, I have not ridden less 
than two hundred miles per week. I have done 
little in the poetic way. I have given Mr, 
Sutherland two Prologues; one of which was 
delivered last week. I have likewise strung 
four or five barbarous stanzas, to the tune of 
Chevy Chase, by way of Elegy on your poor un 
fortunate mare, beginning (the name she got 
here was Peg Nicholson) 

" Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare. 
As ever trod on aim ; 
But now she's floating down the Nith, 
And past the mouth o' Cairn." 

My best compliments to Mrs. Nicol, .and little 
Neddy, and all the family ; I hope Ned is a good 
scholar, and will come out to gather nuts and 
apples with me next harvest. R B 



CLXXXVIII. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

[Burns looks back with something of regret to the aa.yt 
of rich dinners and flawing wine-cups whiih he experi- 
enced in Edinburgh. Alexander Cunniraham and b'l 
unhappy loves are recorded in that line song, " Hati i I 
cave on some wild distant shore.'^'] 

Ellisland, ISth Ftlvuary, "90, 
I BEG your pardon, my dear and much valued 
friend, for writing to you on this very unfashion- 
able, unsightly sheet — 

" JMy poverty but not my will consents." 

But to make amends, since of modish post I 

have none, except one poor widowed half-sheet 

of gilt, which lies in my drawer among my pie. 

beian fool's-cap pages, like the widow of a mat 



422 



GENEKAL COHRESPONDENCE 



of fashion, whom that aupolite scoundrel, Ne- 
cessity, has driven from Burgundy and Pine- 
apple, to a dish of Bohea, with the scandal- 
bearing help-mate of a village-priest ; or a glass 
»f whisky-toddy, with a ruby-nosed yoke-fellow 
of a foot-pad ling exciseman — I make a vow to 
suclose this sheet-full of epistolary fragments 
ii that my only scrap of gilt paper. 

I am indeed your unworthy debtor for three 
fiiendly letters. I ought to have written to 
you long ere now, but it is a literal fact, I have 
scarcely a spare moment. It is not that I will 
not write to you ; Miss Burnet is not more dear 
to her guardian angel, nor his grace the Duke 
of Queensbury to the powers of darkness, than 
my friend Cunningham to me. It is not that I 
cannot write to you ; should you doubt it, take 
the following fragment, which wag inteirded for 
you sojLue time ag,o, a^d b^ convinced thi„t I 
can antithesize sentiment, and circumvolute pe- 
riods, as well as any coiner of phrase in the 
regions of philology. 

December, 1789. 
My dear Cunningham, 

Where are you ? And what are you doing ? 
Can you be that son of levity, who takes up a 
friendship as he takes up a fashion ; or are you, 
like some other of the worthiest fellows in the 
world, the victim of indolence, laden with fet- 
ters of ever-increasing weight ? 

What strange beings we are ! Since we have 
a portion of conscious existence, equally capable 
of enjoying pleasure, happiness, and rapture,- 
or of suffering pain, wretchedness, and misery, 
it is surely worthy of an inquiry, whether there 
be not such a thing as a science of life ; whether 
method, economy, and fertility of expedients be 
aot applicable to enjoyment, and whether there 
\e not a want of dexterity in pleasure, which 
renders our little scantling of happiness still 
less; and a profuseness, an intoxication in bliss, 
vTliich leads to satiety, disgust, and self-abhor- 
-( Mce. There is not a doubt but that health, 
; ilea '3, character, decent competency, respec- 
i/ible friends, are real substantial blessings; 
and yot do we not daily see those who enjoy 
many or all of these good things contrive not- 
withstanding to be as unhappy as others to 
whose lot few of them have fallen? I believe 
one great source of this mistake or misconduct 
is owing to a certain stimulus, with us called 
iimbition, which goads us up the hill of life, not 
*s w« ascend other eminences, for the lauuable 



curiosity of viewing an extended landscape 
but rather for the dishonest pride of look 
ing down on others of our fellow-creaturefi^ 
seemingly diminutive in humbler stations, &o 
&c. 

Sunday, lith February, \790. 

God help me ! I am now obliged to 
" Join night to day, and Sunday to the week." 
If there be any truth in the orthodox faith of 
these churches, I am d-mned past redemption, 
and what is worse, d-mned to all eternity. I 
am deeply read in Boston's Four-fold State, 
Marshal on Sanctification, Guthrie's Trill of a 
Saving Interest, &c. ; but "there is no balm in 
Gilead, there is no physician there," for me; so 
I shall e'en turn Arminian, and trust to "sin- 
cere though imperfect obedience." 

'Tuesday, ^e^A. 

LiiuJiily lor me, I was prevented liom tuc dis- 
cussion of the knotty ppint at which I had just 
made a full stop. All my fears and care are 
of this world: if there is another, an hones-t 
man has nothing to fear from it. I hate a man 
that wishes to be a Deist : but I fear, every fair, 
unprejudiced inquirer must in some degree be 
a sceptic. It is not that there are any very stag- 
gering arguments against the ijamortality of 
man; but like electricity, phlogiston, &c., tho 
subject is so involved in darkness, that we want 
data to go upon. One thing frightens me much : 
that we are to live for ever, seems too good news 
to be true. That we are to enter into a new 
scene of existence, where, exempt from want 
and pain, we shall enjoy ourselves and oiai! 
friends without satiety or separation — how much 
should I be indebted to any one who could fully 
assure me that this was certain ! 

My time is once more expired. I will write 
to Mr. Cleghorn soon. God bless him and all 
his concerns ! And may all the powers that 
preside over conviviality and friendship, be pre- 
sent with all their kindest influence, when the 
bearer of this, Mr. Syme, and you meet ! I wist 
I could also make one. 

Finally, brethren, farewell ! Whatsoever 
things are lovely, whatsoever things are gentle, 
whatsoever things are charitable, whatscevei 
things are kind, thii^ii on these things, an(J 
think on R. B. 

1 Young'. Satire on Women 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



42ft 



TO MR. PETER HILL. 

[That Burns turned at this time his thoughts on the 
f rama, this order to his bookseller for dramatic works, 
08 well as his attendance at the Dumfries theatre, afford 
jroof 

■Ellisland, 2d March, 1790. 

At a late meeting of the Monkland Friendly 
&i>ciety, it was resolved to augment their library 
by the following books, which you are to send 
as as soon as possible : — The Mirror, The 
Lounger, Man of Feeling, Man of the World, 
(these, for my own sake, I wish to have by the 
first carrier), Knox's History of the Reforma- 
tion; Rae's History of the Rebellion in 1715; 
any good history of the rebellion in 1745; A 
Display of the Secession Act and Testimony, by 
Mv Gibb; Hcrvey's Meditations- Bsy Bridge's 
Thoughts ; and another copy of Watson's Body 
of Divinity. 

I wrote to Mr. A. Masterton three or four 
months ago, to pay some money he owed me into 
your hands, and lately I wrote to yoif'to the same 
purpose, but I have heard from neither one or 
other of you. 

In addition to the books I commissioned in 
my last, I want very much An Index to the Ex- 
cise Laws, or an Abridgment of all the Statutes 
now in force relative to the Excise, by Jellinger 
Bymons ; I want three copies of this book : if it 
is now to be had, cheap or dear, get it for me. 
An honest country neighbour of mine wants too 
a Family Bible, the larger the better; but 
second-handed, for he does not choose to give 
above ten shillings for the book. I want like- 
wise for myself, as you can pick them up, second- 
handed or cheap, copies of Otway's Dramatic 
Works Ben Jonson's, Dryden's, Congreve's, 
Wycherley's, Vanbrugh's, Gibber's, or any dra- 
matic works of the more modern, Macklin, Gar- 
rick, Foote, Colman, or Sheridan. A good copy 
\Oo of Moliere, in French, I much want. Any 
C tbei (T'^od dramatic authors in that language I 
^ant aiso , but comic authors, chiefly, though I 
should wish to have Racine, Corneille, and Vol- 
taire too. I am in no hurry for all, or any of 
ihese, but if you accidentally meet with them 
rery cheap, get them for me. 

And now to quit the dry walk of business, how 
do you do, my dear friend? and how is Mrs. 
Hill ? I trust, if now and then not so elegantly 
handsome, at least as amiable, and sings as 
lirinely aa ever. My good wife too has a 



charming "wood-note wild;" now could wc 

four . 

I am out of all patience with this vile world, 
for one thing. Mankind are. by nature benevo- 
lent creatures, except in a few scoundrelly in- 
stances. I do not think that avarice of the good 
things we chance to have, is born with us ; but 
we are placed here amid so much nakedness, and 
hunger, and poverty, and want, that we are under 
a cursed necessity of studying selfishness, in 
order that we may exist ! Still there are, in 
every age, a few souls, that all the wants and 
woes' of life cannot debase to selfishness, or even 
to the necessary alloy of caution and prudence. 
If ever I am in danger of vanity, it is when I 
contemplate myself on this side of my disposition 
and character. God knows I am no saint ; I 
have a whole host of follies and sin, to answer 
for, out if I tioald, ^nd i believe I Jo ii; as iai* 
as I can, I would wipe away all tears from all 
eyes. 

Adieu ! 

R. B 



cxc. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

fit is not a little singular that Bums says, in this letle- , 
he had just met w^ith the Mirror and Lounger for the first 
time : it will be remembered that a few years before a 
generous article was dedicated by Mackenzie, the editor, 
to the Poems of Burns, and to this the poet often alludei 
in his correspondence.] 

Ellisland, 10th April, 1790. 

I HAVE just now, my ever honoured friend 
enjoyed a very high luxury, in reading a papei 
of the Lounger. You know my national preju" 
dices, I had often read and admired the Spec- 
tator, Adventurer, Rambler, and World; but 
still with a certain regret, that they were so 
thoroughly and entirely English Alas ! have I 
often said to myself, what are all the boasted 
advantages which my country reaps from the 
union, that can counterbalance the annihilation 
of her independence, and even her very name ! 
I often repeat that couplet of my favourite poet, 
Goldsmith — 

" States of native liberty possest, 

Tho' very poor, may yet be very blest." 

Nothing can reconcile me to the common 
terms, "English ambassador, English court," 
&c. And I am out of all patience to see tha 



4-24 



GENERAL CORPtESPONDENCiJ 



equivocal character, Hastings, impeached by 
"the Commons of England." Tell me, my 
friend, is this weak prejudice? I believe in my 
conscience such ideas as " my country ; her in- 
dependence ; her honour ; the illustrious names 
that mark the history of my native land ;" &c. 
— I believe these, among your men of the world, 
men who in fact guide for the most part and 
govern our world, are looked on as so many mo- 
lifications of wrongheadedness. They know 
the use of bawling out such terms, to rouse or 
lead THE BABBLE ; but for their own private use, 
with almost all the able statesmen that ever 
existed, sr now exist, when they talk of right 
and wrong, they only mean proper and im- 
proper; and their measure of conduct is, not 
what they ought, but what they daeb. For 
the truth of this I shall not ransack the history 
of nations, but appeal to one of the ablest 
judges of men that ever lived — the celebrated 
Earl of Chesterfield. In fact, a man who could 
thoroughly control his vices whenever they in- 
terfered with his interests, and who could com- 
pletely put on the appearance of every virtue 
as often as it suited his purposes, is, on the 
Stanhopean plan, the ^perfect man; a man to 
lead nations. But are great abilities, complete 
without a flaw, and polished without a blemish, 
the standard of human excellence ? This is 
certainly the staunch opinion of men of the world; 
but I call on honour, virtue, and worth, to give 
the Stygian doctrine a loud negative ! How- 
ever, this must be allowed, that, if you abstract 
from man the idea of an existence beyond the 
grave, then the true measure of human conduct 
is, proper and improper : virtue and vice, as dis- 
positions of the heart, are, in that case, of scarce- 
ly the same import and value to the world at 
large, as harmony and discord in the modifica- 
tions of sound ; and a delicate sense of honour, 
like a nice ear for music, though it may some- 
times give the possessor an ecstasy unknown to 
the coarser organs of the herd, yet, considering 
the harsh gratings, and inharmonic jars, in this 
ill-tuned state pf being, it is odds but the indi- 
vidual would be as happy, and certainly would 
be as much respected by the true judges of 
Bociety as it would then stand, without either a 
good ear or a good heart. 

You must know I have just met with the 
Mirror and Lounger for the first time, and I am 
^uite in raptures with them ; I should be glad 
to have your opinion of some of the pawers. 



The one I have just read. Lounger, No. 61, ha* 
cost me more honest tears than anything I have 
read of a long time. Mackenzis has been called 
the Addiflon of the Scots, and m my opinion, 
Addison would not be hurt at the comparison. 
If he has not Addison's exquisite humour, he ai 
certainly outdoes him in the tender and the p*' 
thetic. His Man of Feeling (bit I sin. nol 
counsel learned in the laws of criticism) I esti- 
mate as the first performance in its kind I evoz 
saw. From what book, moral or even piova, 
will the susceptible young mind receive impres 
sions more congenial to humanity and kindaesa. 
generosity and benevolence ; in short, more oi 
all that ennobles the soul to herself, or endears 
her to others — than from the simple affecting 
tale of poor Harley? 

Still, with all my admiration of Mackenzie's 
writings, I do not know if they are the fittest 
reading for a young man who is about to set 
out, as the phrase is, to, make his way into life. 
Do not you think. Madam, that among the fevf 
favoured of heaven in the structure of their 
minds (for such there certainly are) there may 
be a purity, a tenderness, a dignity, an elegance 
of soul, which are of no use, nay, in some degree, 
arbsolutely disqualifying for the truly important 
business of making a man's way into life ? If 1 
am not much mistaken, my gallant young friend, 
j^ * * * * * *^ is very much under these dis- 
qualifications ; and for the young females of a 
family I could mention, well may they excite 
parental solicitude, for I, a common acquaint- 
ance, or as my vanity will have it, an humble 
friend, have often trembled for a turn of mind 
which may render them eminently happy — or 
peculiarly miserable ! 

I have been manufacturing some verses late- 
ly ; but when I have got the most hurried sea- 
son of excise business over, I hope to have mora 
leisure to transcribe anything that may show 
how much I have the honour to be, Madam, 
Yours, &c. 

R. B, 



CXCI. 

TO COLLECTOR MITCHELL. 

[Collector Mitchell was a kind and considerate g«ctl« 
man: to his grandson, Mr. John Campbell, suigeon, ig 
Aberdeen, I owe this characteristic letter.] 

Mlisland, 1790. 
Sib, 
I SHALL not fail to wait on f^aptain Riddel 



OF ROBEKT BURNS. 



42^ 



lo-night — I wish and pray that the goddess of 
justice herself would appear to-morrow among 
our hon. gentlemen, merely to give them a word 
ji their ear that mercy to the thief is injustice 
m the honest man. For my part I have gal- 
l<f ed over my ten parishes these four days, 
at til this moment Ihat I am just alighted, or 
rather, that my poor jackass-skeleton of a 
fc.or*- has let me down; for the miserable devil 
ins heen on his kneea half a score of times 
within thf! last twenty miles; telling me in his 
own way, 'Behold, am not I thy faithful jade 
of a horse, on which thou hast ridden these 
many years !' 

In short. Sir, I have broke my horse's wind, 
and almost broke my own neck, besides some 
injuries in a part that shall be nameless, owing 
to a hard-hearted stone for a saddle. I find 
that every offender has so many great men to 
espouse his cause, that I shall not be surprised 
If I am committed to the strong hold of the 
law to-morrow for insolence to the dear friends 
of the -gentlemen of the country. 

I have the honour to be. Sir, 

Your obliged and obedient humble 
R. B. 



CXGII. 

TO DE. MOORE. 

J^The sonnets alluded to by Burns were those of Char- 
lotte Smith : the poet's copy is now before me, with a 
few marks of his pen on the margins.] 

Dumfries, Excise- Office, litJi July, 1790. 
Sir, 
Coming into town this morning, to attend my 
duty in this oflBce, it being collection-day, I met 
with a gentleman who tells me he is on his way 
i-i London ; so I take the opportunity of writing 
tc you, as franking is at present under a tem- 
porary death. I shall have some snatches of 
Isisfl »<i through the day, amid our horrid busi- 
ness and bustle, and I shall improve them as 
rell as I can ; but let my letter be as stupid as 
****"*****, as miscellaneous as a news- 
paper, as short as a hungry grace-befdre'-meat, 
or as long as a la*v-paper in the Douglas cause ; 
fts ill-spelt as country John's billet-doux, or asun- 
eightly a scrawl as Betty Byre-Mucker's answer 
*o it ; I hope, considering circumstances, you 
will forgive it ; and as it will put you to no 
ixpense of postage, I shall have the less reflec- 
(wn aboiit it. 



I am sadly ungrateful in not returning you 
my thanks for your most valuable present, Ze-- 
luco. In fact, you are in some degree blameable 
for my neglect. You were pleased to express a 
wish for my opinion of the work, which so flat- 
tered me, that nothing less would serve aay 
overweening fancy, than a foimal criticism on 
the book. In fact, I have gravely planned a 
comparative view of you, Fielding, Richardson, 
and Smollett, in your different qualities and 
merits as novel-writers. This, I own, betrays 
my ridiculous vanity, and I may probably never 
bring the business to bear ; and I am fond of 
the spirit young Elihu shows in the book of 
Job — "And I said, I will also declare my opi- 
nion," I have quite disfigured my copy of the 
book with my annotations, I never take it iip 
without at the same time taking my pencil, and 
marking with asterisms, parentheses, &c., wher- 
ever I meet with an original thought, a nervous 
remark on life and manners, a remstikable well- 
turned period, or a character sketched with un- 
common precision. 

Though I should hardly think of fairly wri- 
ting out my "Comparative View," I shall cer- 
tainly trouble you with my remarks, such ai 
they are. 

I have just received from my gentleman that 
horrid summons in the book of Revelations — 
" That time shall be no more !" 

The little collection of sonnets have some 
charming poetry in them. If indeed I am in- 
debted to the fair author for the book, and not, 
as I rather suspect^ to a celebrated author of 
the other sex, I should certainly have written to 
the lady, with my grateful acknowledgments, 
and my own ideas of the comparative excellenoo 
of her pieces. I would do this last, not from 
any vanity of thinking that my remarks could 
be of much consequence to Mrs. Smith, but 
merely from my own feelings as an authar, doiag 
as I would be done by. « R. B 



cxcrii. 
TO MR. MURDOCH, 

TEACHER or FRENCH, LONDON. 

[The account of himself, promised to Murdoch )» 
Burns, was never written.] 

Ellisland July 16, 1790. 
Mt dear Sir, 
I received a letter from you a long time aj?o 



426 



GENEKAL COEKESPONDENCB 



out unfortunately, as it was in the time of my 
peregrinations and journeyings through Scot- 
land, I mislaid or lost it, and by consequence 
your direction -along with it. Luckily my good 
Biar brought me acquainted with Mr. Kennedy, 
who, I understand, is an acquaintance of yours : 
■ind by his means and mediation I hope to re- 
place that link which my unfortunate negligence 
liad so unluckily broke in the chain of our cor- 
i'cgpondence. I was the more vexed at the vile 
accident, as my brother William, a journeyman 
saddler, has been for some time in London ; and 
wished above all things for your direction, that 
he might have paid his respects to his father's 
friend. 

His last address he sent me was, " Wm. Burns, 
at Mr. Barber's, saddler. No. 181, Strand." 1 
writ him by Mr. Kennedy, but neglected to ask 
his foi ^, our addvacs ; ij, i. you 'nd sp3?e 
half-minute, please let my brother know by a 
card where and when he will find you, and the 
poor fellow will joyfully wait on you, as one of 
the few surviving friends of the man whose 
name, and Christian name too, he has the honour 
to bear. 

The next letter I write you shall be a long 
one. I have much to tell you of " hair-breadth 
'scapes in th' imminent deadly breach," with 
all the eventful history of a life, the early years 
of which owed so much to your kind tutorage ; 
but this at an hour of leisure. My kindest com- 
pliments to Mrs. Murdoch and family. 
I am ever, my dear Sir, 

Your obliged friend, 

R. B. 



TO MR. M'MURDO. 

[This hasty note was accompanied by the splendid elegy 
m Matthew Henderson, and no one could better feel than 
H Mnrdo, to whom it is addressed, the difference between 
^w TRueic of verse and the clangour of politics.] 



UllmuKd^ 2d August, Yt 



SlB, 



Now that you are over with the sirens of Flat- 
tory, the harpies of Corruption, and the furies 
af Ambition, these infernal deities, that on all 
gides, and in all parties, preside over the villa- 
ttous business of politics, permit a rustic muse of 
Your acquaintance to do her best to soothe you 
with a song. — 



You knew Henderson— I have not flatter©* 
IS memory. 

I have the honour to be, Sir, 

Your obliged humble servant, 
B. E 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

[Inquiries have been made in vain after the name of 
Burns's ci-devant friend, who had so deeply wounded hit 
feelings.] 

Sth August, 1790. 
Dear Madam, 

Aftbb, a long day's toil, plague, and care, I 
sit down t'^ write to you. Ask me "ot why I 
^ave v^elajGd itoO long .' li was v^wiug, to h^^rry, 
indolence, and fifty other things ; in short to any- 
thing — but forgetfulness of la plus aimable de son 
sexe. By the bye, you are indebted your best 
courtesy to me for this last compliment ; as I 
pay it from my sincere conviction of its truth — 
a quality rather rare in compliments of these 
grinning, bowing, scraping times. 

Well, I hope writing to you will ease a little 
my trpubled soul. Sorely has it been, bruised 
to-day! A ci-devant friend of mine, and an 
intimate acquaintance of yours, has given my 
feelings a wound that I perceive will gangrene 
dangerously ere it cure. He has wounded my 
pride ! R. B- 



TO MR. CUNNINGHAM 

[" The strain ol mvective," says the judicicis Currie 
of this letter, " goes on some time longer in the sly'.e ii 
which our bard was too apt to indulge, and ci whick iti« 
reader has already seen so much."] 

Mlisland, 8ih August. 1790. 

Forgive me, my once dear, and ever dear 
friend, my seeming negligence. You cannot sit 
down and fancy the busy life I lead. 

I laid down my goose-feather to beat my 
brains for an apt simile, and had some thoughts 
of a country grannum at a family christening r 
a bride on the market-day before hermarriagc, 
or a tavern-keeper at an election-dinner ; but 
the resemblance that hits my fancy best is, thai 




blackguard miscreant, Satan, who roams about 
like a roaring lion, seeking, searching whom he 
may devour. However, tossed about as I am, if 

choose (and who w)uld not choose) to -bind 
down with the crampets ol." attention the brazen 
foundation of integrity, I may rear up the super- 
Btructure of Independence, and from its daring 
turrets bid defiance to the storms of fate. And 
is not this a " consummation devoutly to be 
wished ?" 

" Thy spirit. Independence, let me share ; 

Lord of the liun-heart, and eagle-eye ! 
Thy steps I follow with my bosom bare, 
Nor heed the storm that howls along the sky !" 

Are not these noble verses ? They are the 
introduction of Smollett's Ode to Independence: 
if yon have not seen the poem, I will send it to 
you. — How wretched is the man that hangs on 
bj th( ^avc^jiT-s r" th( Trei^t! T- sh-ink frrm 
every dignity of man, at the approach of a lordly 
piece of self-consequence, who, amid all his 
tinsel glitter, and stately hauteur, is but a 
creature formed as thou art — and perhaps not 
so well formed as thou art — came into the world 
a puling infant as thou didst, and must go out 
nf it. as all men must, a naked corse. 

R. B. 



TO DR. ANDERSON. 

[The gentleman to whom this imperfect rote ia ad- 
dressed was Dr. James Anderson, a well-known agri- 
cultural and miscellaneous writer, and the editor of a 
weekly miscellany called the Bee.] 

Sir, 

I AM much indebted to my worthy friend, Dr, 
Blacklock .''■ i introducing me to a gentleman of 
Dr. Anderoon's celebrity ; but when you do me 
4lie honour to ask my assistance in your proposed 
publication, alas. Sir ! yon might as well think 
to cheapen a little honesty at the sign of au 
ifci?ccate's wig, or humility under the Geneva 
band. I am. a miserable hurried devil, worn to 
the marrow in the friction of holding the noses 
of the poor publicans to the grindstone of the 
excise! and, like Milton's Satan, for private 
reasons, am forced 

" To do what yet thi ugh damn'd I would abhor." 
— and, except a coi.plet or two of honest exe- 
nation * . * * * 

S. B. 



cxcvni. 

TO WILLIAM TYTLER, ESQ., 

OF WOODHOUSELBE. 

[William Tytler was the "revered defendei of (hj 
beauteous Stuart"— a man of genius and a gertleman ] 



Lawn Market, August, 1790. 



Sir, 



Enclosed I have sent you a sample of the ol(J 
pieces that are still to be found among our pea. 
santry in the west. I had once a great many of 
these fragments, and some of these here, entire ; 
but as I had no idea then that anybody cared 
for them, I have forgotten them. I invariably 
hold it sacx'ilege to add anything of my own to 
help out with the shattered wrecks of thesa 
venerable old compositions ; but they have many 
/ari^LiS ro^adingtj. li yo.. ha^fc no. iee. jhc^a 
before, I know they will flatter your true old- 
style Caledonian feelings ; at any rate I am truly 
happy to have an opportunity of assuring you 
how sincerely I am, revered Sir, 

Your gratefully indebted humble servant, 
R. B. 



TO CRAUFORD TAIT, ESQ., 

EDINBUKGH. 

[Margaret Chalmers had now, it appears by this letter, 
become Mrs. Lewis Hay : her friend, Charlotte Hamilton, 
had been for some time Mrs. Adair, of Scarborough : 
Miss Nimmo was the lady who introduced Burns to th« 
far-famed Clarinda.] 

ElUsland., 15th October, 1790. 
Dear Sir, 

Allow me to introduce to your acquaintanct 
the bearer, Mr. Wm. Duncan, a friend of mine, 
whom I have long known and long loved. Hia 
father, whose only son he is, has a decent litt!« 
property in Ayrshire, and has bred the jcung 
man to the law, in which department he comea 
up an adventurer to your good town. I shaD 
give you my friend's character in two words : 
as to his head, he has talents enough, and mora 
than enough for common life ; as to his heart, 
when nature had kneaded the kindly clay tha< 
composes it, she said, " I can no more." 

You, my good Sir, were born under kindei 
stars ; but your fraternal sympathy, I well know 



128* 



GENERAL COKRESPONDENCE 



tan enter into the feelings of the young man, 
who goes into life with the laudable ambition to 
do something, and to be something among his 
fellow-creatures ; but whom the consciousness 
of friendless obscurity presses to the earth, and 
wounds to the soul ! 

Tven the fairest of his virtues are against 
him. That independent spirit, and that ingenu- 
ous modesty, qualities inseparable from a noble 
mind, are, with the million, circumstances not 
a little disqualifying. What pleasure is in the 
power of the fortunate and the happy, by their 
notice and patronage, to brighten the counte- 
nance and glad the heart of such depressed 
ycith ! I am not so angry w'ith mankind for 
then deaf economy of the purse : — the goods of 
this world cannot be divided without being les- 
sened — but why be a niggard of that which 
b«>stows bliss on a fellow-creature, yet takes no- 
thing from our own means of enjoyment? We 
wrap ourselves up in the cloak of our own 
better, fortune, and tufa away our eyes, lest the 
wants and woes of our brother-mort.als should 
disturb the selfish apathy of our souls ! 

I am the worst hand in the world at asking a 
favour. That indirect address, that insinuating 
implication, which, without any positive request, 
plainly expresses your wish, is a talent not to 
be acquired at a plough-tail. Tell me then, for 
you can, in what periphrasis of language^ in 
what circumvolution -of phrase, I shall envelope, 
yet not conceal this plain story. — "My dear 
Mr. Tait, my friend Mr. Duncan, whom I have 
the pleasure of introducing to you, is a young 
lad of your own profession, and a gentleman of 
much modesty, and great worth. Perhaps it 
may be in your power to assist him in the, to 
him, important consideration of getting a place ; 
but at all events, your notice and acquaintance 
will be a very great acquisition to him ; and I 
dare pledge myself that he will never disgrace 
your favour." 

You may possibly be surprised, Sir, at such a 
fitter from me ; 'tis, I own, in the usual way of 
ealculating these matters, more than our ac- 
quaintance entitles me to ; but my answer is 
short : — Of all the men at your time of life, 
whom I knew in Edinburgh, you are the most 
accessible on the side on which I have assailed 
fou. You are very much altered indeed from 
ffhat you were when I knew you, if generosity 
point the path you will not tread, or humanity 
tail to you in vain. 



As to myself, a being to whose interest I be- 
lieve you are still a well-wisher; I am here, 
breathing at all times, thinkiflg sometimes, and 
rhyming now and 'then. Every situation haa 
its share of the cares and pains of life, and my 
situation I am persuaded has a full ordinary 
allowance of its pleasures and enjoyments 

M3' jjest compliments to your father and Miss 
Tait. If you have an opportunity, please re- 
member me in the solemn league and covenant 
of friendship to Mrs. Lewis Hay. I am a wretch 
for not writing her ; but I am so hackneyed 
with self-accusation in that way, that my con- 
science lies in my bosom with scarce the sen- 
sibility of an oyster in its shell. Where is Lady 
M'Kenzie? wherever she is, God bless her! I 
likewise beg leave to trouble you with com- 
pliments to Mr. Wm. Hamilton ; Mrs. Hamilton 
and family ; and Mrs. Chalmers, when you are 
in that country. Should j^ou meet with Miss 
Nimmo, please remember, me kindly to her. 

R. B 



TO 



[This letter contained the Kirk's Alarm, a satire writtea 
to help the cause of Dr. M'Gill, who recanted his heresy 
rather than be removed from his kirk.] 

Ellisland, 1790. 
Dear Sir, 
Whether in the way of my trade I can be 
of any service to the Rev. Doctor, is I fear very 
dc'ibtful. Aj ax's shield consisted, I think, of 
seven bull-hides and. a plate of brass, which 
altogether set Hectoi''s utmost force at defiance. 
Alas ! I am not a Hector, and the worthy Doc- 
tor's foes ar« as securely armed as Ajax was. 
Ignorance, superstition, bigotry, stupidity, ma- 
levolence, self-conceit, envy— all strongly bcunij 
in a massy frame of brazen impudence. Good 
God, Sir ! to such a shield, humour is the peck 
of a sparrow, and satire the pop-gun of a school- 
boy. Creation-disgracing scelerats such as they, 
God only can mend, and the devil only can 
punish. In the comprehending way of Caligula, 
I wish they all had but one neck. I feel impo' 
tent as a child to the ardour of my wishes ! O 
for a withering curse to blast the germins ol 
their wicked machinations ! for a poisonoiw 
tornado, winged from the torrid zoae of Tar- 



OF ROBEET BURNS. 



42£ 



tarua, to sweep the spreading irop of their 
riilanous contrivances to t^-e lo-r^est liell ! 

R. B. 



. * TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

' The pott wrote out several copies of Tarn o' Shanter 
ini.l seat tiiem to his friends, requesting their criticismB : 
he wnte few poems so universally applauded. 

ElUsland, November, 1790. 

" As cold waters to a thirsty soul, so is good 
aews from a far country." 

Fate has long owed me a letter of good news 
from you, in return for the many tidings of sor- 
row which I have received. In this instance I 
most cordially obey the apf^tle — "Rejoice with 
them that do rejoice" — for me, to sing for joy, is 
no new thing; but to preach for joy, as I have 
done in the commencement f^f this epistle, is a 
pitch of extravagant rapture to which I never 
rose before. 

I read your letter — T literally jumped for joy 
— How could such a mercurial creature as a 
poet lumpishly Ireen bis seat on the receipt of 
th( best news from his boot friend. I seized 
my gilt-headed Wangeo rod, an instrument in- 
dispensably necessary ir my left hand, in the 
moment of inspiratio?i and rapture ; and stride, 
stride — quick and quicker — out skipt I among 
the broomy banks of Nith to muse over my joy 
bv retail. To keep within the bounds of prose 
was impossible. Mrs. Little's is a more elegant, 
i)ut not a more sincere compliment to the sweet 
ittle fellow, than I, extempore almost, poured 
mt to him in the following verses : — 

Sweet flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love 

And ward o' mony a prayer,. 
What heart o' stane wad thma na move, 

Sae helpless, sweet, an' fair. 
November hirples o'er the lea 

Chill on thy lovely form ; » 

But gane, alas ! the sbelt'ring tree 

Should shield thc-e frae the storm. 

I am much fla,tt/<>red by your approbation of 
my Tam o' Shar'ter which you express in your 
former letter ; thOrigb, by the bye, you load me 
in that said letter with accusations heavy and 
many ; to all which I plead, not guilty ! Your 
book is, I hear, on the road to reach me. As 



to printing of poetry, when you prepare it fo» 
the press, you have only to spell it right, and 
place the capital letters properly : as to th« 
punctuation, the printers do that themselves. 

I have a copy of Tarn o' Shanter ready to send 
you by the first opportunity : it is too heavy to 
send by post. 

I heard of Mr. Corbet lately. He, in constt" 
quence of your recommendation, is most lealotui 
to serve me. Please favour me soon with as 
account of your good folks ; if Mrs. H. is re- 
covering, and the young gentleman doing well. 

R. B 



TO LADY W. M. CONSTABLE. 

[The present alluded to was a gold snuff-box, with « 
portrfftt of Queen Mary on the lid.] 

ElUsland, Wth January, 1791 
Mt Lady, 
Nothing less than the unlucky accident of 
.having lately broken my right arm, could have 
prevented me, the moment I received your lady- 
ship's elegant present by Mrs. Miller, from re- 
turning you my warmest and most grateful 
acknowledgments. I assure your ladyship, I 
shall set it apart — the symbols of religion shall 
only be more sacred. In the moment of poetic 
composition, the box shall be my inspiring 
genius. When I would breathe the compre- 
hensive wish of benevolence for the happiness 
of others' I shall recollect your ladyship ; when 
I would interest my fancy in the distresses in- 
cident to humanity, 1 shall remember the unfcy- 
tunate Mary. R. B. 



CCIII. 

TO WILLIAM DUNBAR, N. 3. 

[This letter was in answer to one frnrri Dur.bst ig 
which the witty colonel of the Croohallan Fencib.M 
supposed the poet had been translated to Elysiun" to b'l^ 
to the immortals, as his voice had not been hoard of lat« 
on earth.] 

ElUsland, 11 th January, 1791. 
I AM not gone to Elysium, most noble colonel, 
but am still here in this sublunary world, serv- 
ing my God, by propagating his image, and 



430 



GENEKAL CORRESPONDENbE 



honouring my king by begetting him loyal sub- 
jects. 

Many happy returns of the season await my 
friend. May the thorns of care never beset his 
path ! May peace be an inmate of his bosom, 
and rapture a frequent visitor of his soul ! May 
ihe blood-hounds of misfortune never track his 
steps, nor the screech-owl of sorrow alarm his 
dwelling! May enjoyment tell thy hours, and 
pleasure number thy days, thou friend of the 
bard ! " Blessed be he that blesseth thee, and 
cui'sed be he that curseth thee ! ! !" 

As a further proof that I am still in the land 
of existence, I send you a poem, the latest I 
have composed. I have a particular reason for 
wishing you only to show' it to select friends, 
should you think it worthy a friend's persual ; 
but if, at your first leisure hour, you will favour 
me with your opinion of, and strictures on the 
performance, it will be an additional obligation 
on, dear Sir, your deeply indebted humble ser- 
vant, R. B. 



TO MR. PETER HILL. 

[The poet's eloquent apostrophe to poverty has no little 
feeling in it : he beheld the money which his poems 
brought melt silently away, and he looked to the future 
with more fear than hope.] 

EUisland, 17tk January, 1791. 
Take these two guineas, and place them over 
against that d-mned account of yours ! which 
has gagged my mouth these five or six months! 
I can as little write good things as apologies to 
'.he man I owe money to. the supreme curse 
of making three guineas do the business of five! 
Not all the labours of Hercules ; not all the 
Hebrews' three centuries of Egyptian bondage, 
were such an insuperable business, such an 
'nfernal task ! ! Poverty ! thou half-sister of 
leath, thou cousin-german of hell : where shall 
I find force of execration equal to the amplitude 
of thy demerits ? Oppressed by thee, the vene- 
rable ancient, grown hoary in the practice of 
every virtue, laden with years and wretched- 
ness, implores a little — little aid to support his 
existence, from a stony-hearted son of Mammon, 
trhose sun of prosperity never knew a cloud; 
and is by him denied and insulted. Oppressed 
by thee, the m;m of sentiment, whose heart 
flows with indepei dence, and melts with sensi- 



bility, inly pines under the neglect, or writhes 
in bitterness of soul, under the contumely of 
arrogant, unfeeling wealth. Oppressed by thee, 
the son of genius, whose ill-starred ambition 
plants him at the tables of the fashionable and 
politt, must see in suffering silence, his remark 
neglected, and his person despised, while shal- 
low greatness in his idiot attempts at wit,^hall 
meet with countenance and applause. Nor is it 
only the family of worth that have reason to 
complain of thee: the children of folly and vice, 
though in common with thee the offspring of 
evil, smart equally under thy rod. Owing to 
thee, the man of unfortunate disposition and 
neglected education, is condemned as a fool for 
his dissipation, despised and shunned as a 
needy wretch, when his follies as usual bring 
him to want; and when his unprincipled ne- 
cessities drive him to dishonest practices, he ia 
abhorred as a miscreant, and perishes by the 
justice of his country. - But far otherwise is 
the lot of the man of family and fortune. Hii 
early follies and extravagance, are spirit and 
fire ; his consequent wants are the embarrass- 
ments of an honest fellow ; and when, to remedy 
the matter, he has gained a legal commission to 
plunder distant provinces, or massacre peaceful 
nations, he returns, perhaps, laden with the 
spoils of rapine and murder ; lives wicked and 
respected, and dies a scoundrel and a lord. — 
Nay, worst of all, alas for helpless woman ! tho 
needy prostitute, who has shivered at the cor- 
ner of the street, waiting to earn the wages of 
casual prostitution, is left neglected and in- 
sulted, ridden down by the chariot wheels of 
the coroneted Rip, hurrying on to the guilty 
assignation ; she who without the same neces- 
sities to plead, riots nightly in the same guilty 
trade. 

Well ! divines may say of it what they please ; 
but execration is to the mind what phlebotomy 
is to the body : the vital sluices of both are 
wonderfully relieved by their respective evacu» 
tions. R. B. 



ccv. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

[To Alexander Cunningham the poet generally 
nicated his favourite compopitions.] 

EUisland, ^Zd January, 1791. 
Many happy returns of the season to you, 
my dear friend ! As many 'of ttie good thingi 



OF EGBERT BURNS. 



431 



tt this life, aa is consistent with the usual mix- 
ture of good and evil in the cup of being ! 

I have just finished a poem (Tam o' Shanter) 
which you will receive enclosed. It is my first 
essay in the way of tales. 

I have these several months been hammering 
at an elegy on the amiable and accomplished 
Miss Burnet. I have got, and can get, no far- 
ther than the following fragment, on which 
please give me your strictures. In all kinds of 
poetic cemposition, I set great store by your 
opinion ; but in sentimental verses, in the poetry 
of the heart, no Roman Catholic ever set more 
value on the infallibility of the Holy Father 
than I do on yours. 

I mean the introductory couplets as text 



ELEGY 

ON THE LATE MISS BURNET, OF MONBODDO. 

Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize 
As Burnet lovely from her native sties ; 
Nor envious death so triumph'd in a blow, 
As that which laid th' accomplish'd Burnet low. 



Let me hear from you soon. Adieu ! 



R. B. 



CCVI. 

TO A. F. TYTLER, ESQ. 

[" I have seldom in my life," says Lord Woodhouselee, 
" tasted a higher enjoyment from any work of genius 
tt.an I received from Tam o' Shanter."] 

Ellisland, February, 1791. 

SiK, 

Nothing less than the unfortunate accident 
I have met . with, could have prevented my 
grateful acknowledgments for your letter. His 
own lavourite poem, and that an essay in the 
walk of the muses entirely new to him, where 
Sm8«quently his hopes and fears were on the 
Bost anxious alarm for his success in the 
attempt, to have that poem so much applauded 
by one of Uae first judges, was the most delicious 
vibration that ever thrilled along the heart- 
strings of a poor poet. However, Providence, 
10 Keep up the proper proportion of evil with 
the good, which it seems is necessary in this 
lublunary state, thought proper to check my 
,xultation by a very serious misfortune. A day 
»r tw9 after I recei-'ed your letter, my horse 



came down with me and broke my right arm. 
As this is the first service my arm has done ma 
since its disaster, I find myself unalle to do 
more than just in general terms thank you for 
this additional instance of your patronage and 
friendship. As to the faults you detected in the 
piece, they are truly there : one of them, the 
hit at the lawyer and priest, I shall cut out; a8 
to J.he falling off in the catastrophe, for the rea- 
son you justly adduce, it cunnot easily be reme- 
died. Your approbation, Sir, has given me 
such additional spirits to persevere in this 
species of poetic composition, that I am already 
revolving two or three stories in my fancy. If 
I can bring these floating ideas to bear any 
kind of embodied form, it will give me addi- 
tional opportunity of assuring you how much I 
have the honour to be, &c. R. P 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

[The elegy on the beautiful Miss Burnet, of Monboddo. 
was laboured zealously by Burns, but it never reached 
the excellence of some of his other compositions.] 

Ellisland, 1th Feb. 1791. 

A¥hen I tell you. Madam, that by a fall, not 
from my horse, but with my horse, I have been 
a cripple some time, and that this is the first 
day my arm and hand have been able to serve 
me in writing; you will allow that it is too good 
an apology for my seemingly ungrateful silence. 
I am now getting better, and am able to rhyme 
a little, which implies some tolerable ease ; aa 
T cannot think that the most poetic genius is 
able to compose on the rack. 

I do not remember if ever I mentioned to you 
my having an idea of composing an elegy on the 
late Miss Burnet, of Monboddo. I had thf 
honour of being pretty well acquainted with 
her, and have seldom felt so much at the loss 
of an acquaintance, as when I heard that so 
amiable and accomplished a piece of God's worh 
was no more. I have, as yet, gone no farther 
than the following fragment, of which plt"as(j 
let me have your opinion. You know that elegy 
is a subject so much exhausted, th|,t any new 
idea on the business is not to be expected : 'tis 
well if we can place an old idea in a new light 
How far I have succeeded as to this last, you 



132 



aENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



will judge from what foUows. I have proceeded 
ao further. 

Your kind letter, with your kind remembrance 
tff your godson, came safe. This last, Madam, 
is scarcely what my pride can bear. As to 
the little fellow, he is, partiality apart, the 
finest boy I have for a long time seen. He is 
now seventeen months old, has the small-pox 
and measles over, has cut several teeth, afid 
never had a grain of doctor's drugs in his 
bowels. 

I am truly happy to hear that the "little 
floweret" is blooming so fresh and fair, and 
that the "mother plant" is rather recovering 
her drooping head. Soon and well may her 
" cruel wounds" be healed. I have written thus 
far with a good deal of difficulty. When I get 
a little abler you shall hear farther from. 
Madam, yours, 

R. B. 



covin. 

TO THE EEV. ARCH. ALISON. 

lAlison wasmucn gvacinetl. it is said, with this recogni- 
tion of the principles laid down in his ingenious and popu- 
lar work.] 

Ellidand, near Dumfries, 14th Feb. 1791. 
Sir, 
You must by this time have set me down as 
one of the most ungrateful of men. You did 
me the honour to present me with a book, 
which does honour to science and the intel- 
lectual powers of man, and I have not even so 
much as acknowledged the receipt of it. The 
fact is, you yoursmf are to blame for it. Flat- 
tered as I was by your telling me that you 
wished to have my opinion of the work, the 
old spiritual enemy of mankind, who knows 
well that vanity is one of the sins that most 
easily beset me, put it into my head to jjonder 
over the performance with the look-out of a 
critic, and to draw up forsooth a deep learned 
digest of strictures on a composition, of which, 
in fact, until I read the book, I did not even 
know the first principles. I own, Sir, that at 
first glance, several of your propositions star- 
tled me as paradoxical. That the martial clan- 
gour r>f a trumpet had something in it vastly 
more grand, heroic, and sublime, than the twin- 
gle twangle of a jew's-harp ; that the delicate 
texure of a rose-twig, when the half-blown 



flower is heavy with the tears of the da-wn, wafl 
infinitely more beautiful and elegant than the 
upright stub of a burdock ; and that from some- 
thing innate and independent of all associations 
of ideas ; — these I had set down as irrefragable, 
orthodox truths, until perusing your book shook 
my faith. — In short, Sir, except Euclid's Ele- 
ments of Geometry, which I made a shift to un- 
ravel by my father's fire-side, in the winter 
evening of the first season I held the plough, I 
never read a book which gave me such a quan- 
tum of information, and added so much to my 
stock of ideas, as your "Essays on the Prin- 
ciples of Taste." One thing. Sir, you must for- 
give my mentioning as an uncommon merit in 
the work, I mean the language. To clothe ab- 
stract philosophy in elegance of style, sounds 
something like a contradiction in terms ; but 
you have convinced me that they are quite com- 
patible. 

I enclose you some pcjetic bagatelles of my 
late composition. The one in print ' ig my first 
essay in the way of telling <i tale. 

\ frm, Sir, &c. 

R. B. 



CCIX. 

TO DR. MOCRE. 

[Moore admired but moderately the beautiful ballad on 
Queen Mary, and the Elegy on Captain Matthew Hen- 
derson : Tam o' Shanter he thought full of poetical bean 
ties. — He again regrets that he writes in the language of 
Scotland.] 

Ellidand, 20th February, 1791, 
I !)0 not know. Sir, whether you are a sub- 
scriber to Orose^ s Ajitiquities of Scotland. If you 
are, the enclosed poem will not be altogether 
new to you. Captain Grose did me the favoui 
to send me a dozen copies of the proof sheet, 
of which this is one. Should you have read 
the piece before, still this will answer the prin- 
cipal end I have in view : it will give me another 
opportunity of thanking you for all j'our good 
ness to the rustic bard ; and also of showing 
you, that the abilities you have been pleased to 
commend and patronize are still employed in the 
way you wish. 

The Elegy on Captain Henderson, is a tribute 
to the memory of a man I loved much. Poets 

J Tara o' Shanter. 



uF EGBERT BURNrf. 



483 



have in this the same advantage as Roman Ca- 
tholics ;. they can be of service to their friends 
after they have passed that bonrne where all 
other kindness ceases to be of avail. Whether, 
after all, either the one or the other be of any 
real service to the dead, is, I fear, very proble- 
matical ; but I am sure they are highly grati- 
fying to the living : and as a very orthodox 
text, I forget where in scripture, says, " what- 
Boever is not of faith is sin ;" so say I, what- 
soever is- not detrimental to society, and is of 
positive enjoyment, is of God, the giver of all 
good things, and ought to be received and en- 
joyed by his creatures with thankful delight. 
As almost all my religious tenets originate from 
my heart, I am wonderfully pleased with the 
idea, that I can still keep up a tender intercourse 
with the dearly beloved friend, or still more 
dearly beloved mistress, who is gone to the world 
of spirits. 

The ballad on Queen Mary was begun while I 
iras busy with Percy's Reliques of English Poetry. 
By the way, how much is every honest heart, 
which has a t.ncture of Caledonian prejudice, 
obliged to you for your glorious story of Bu- 
chanan and Targe ! 'Twas an unequivocal proof 
of your loyal gallantry of soul, giving Targe the 
victory. I should have been mortified to the 
ground if you had not. 

I have just read over, once more of many 
t)mes, your Zeluco. 1 marked with my pencil, 
as I went along, every passage that pleased me 
particularly above the rest ; and one or two, I 
think, which with humble deference, I am dis- 
posed to think unequal to the merits of the book. 
I have sometimes thought to transcribe these 
marked passages, or at least so much of them 
aj to point where they are, and send them to 
you. Original strokes that strongly depict the 
human heart, ia your and Fielding's province 
beyond any other novelist I have ever perused. 
Richardson indeed might perhaps be excepted; 
but unhappily, dramatis persoruB are beings of 
another world ; and however they may captivate 
the unexperienced, romantic fancy of a boy or 
a gii'l, they will ever, in proportion as we have 
made human nature our study, dissatisfy our 
riper years. 

As to my private concerns, I am going on, a 
mighty tax-gatherer before the Lord, and have 
lately had the interest to get myself ranked 
on the list of excise as a supervisor. I am not 
yet employed as such but in a few years I shall 



fall into the file of supervisor ship by seniority. 
I have had an immense loss in the death of the 
Earl of Glencairn ; the patron from whom all 
my fame and fortune took its rise. Independent 
of my grateful attachment to him, which was 
indeed so strong that it pervaded my very soul 
and was entwined with the thread of my exist- 
ence : so soon as the prince's friends had got in 
(and every dog you know has his day), my get- 
ting forward in the excise would have been an 
easier business than otherwise it will be. 
Though this was a consummation devoutly to 
be wished, yet, thank Heaven, I can live ana 
rhyme as I am ; and as to my boys, poor little 
fellows ! if I cannot place them on as high an 
elevation in life, as I could wish, I shall, if I am 
favoured so much of the Disposer of events as to 
see that period, fix them on as broad and inde 
pendent a basis as possible. Among the many 
wise adages which have been treasured up by 
our Scottish ancestors, this is one of the best, 
Better be the head o' the commonalty, than the tail 
o' the gentry. 

But I am got on a subject, which however in 
teresting to me, is of no manner of consequence 
to you ; so I shall give you a short poem on tht 
other page, and close this with assuring you 
how sincerely I have the honour to be. 
Yours, &c. 

K. B. 

Written on the blank leaf of a book, which I 
presented to a very young lady, whom I had 
formerly characterized under the denomination 
of The Rose Bud. * * * 



ccx. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

[Cunningham could tell a merry story, and sirg a i« 
morons song ; nor was he without a feeling for tbf 'l'>^ 

sensibilities of his friend's verse.] 

Ellisland, 12th March, ll'^l. 
If the foregoing piece be worth your stria 
tures, let me have them. For my own part, & 
thing that I have just composed always appears 
through a double portion of that partial medium 
in which an author will ever view his own works. 
I believe in general, novelty has something in it 
that inebriates the fancy, and not unfrequently 
dissipates and fumes away like other intoxica- 
tion, and leaves the poor patient, as usual, with 



131 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



vin acliing heart. A striking instance of this 
might be adduced, in the revolution of many a 
hymeneal honeymoon. But lest I sink into 
stupid prose, and so sacrileg-'ously intrude on 
the office of my parish-priest, I shall fill up the 
page in mj own way, and give you another song 
of my late composition, which will appear per- 
haps in Johnson's work, as well as the former. 
You must know a beautiful Jacobite air, 
riiere'll never be peace 'till Jamie comes hame. 
When political combustion ceases to be the ob- 
ject of princes and patriots, it then you know 
becomes the lawful prey of historians and poets. 

By yon castle wa' at the close of the day, 

■"■ heard a man sing, tho' his head it was grey ; 

Ard as he was singing, the tears fast down 

came — 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 

If you like the air, and if the stanzas hit your 
fancy, you cannot imagine, my dear friend, how 
much you would oblige me, if by the charms of 
your delightful voice, you would give my honest 
effusion to " the memory of joys that are past," 
to the few friends whom you indulge in that 
pleasure. But I have scribbled on 'till I hear 
the clock has intimated the near approach of 

That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane. — 

So good night to you ! Sound be your sleep, and 
delectable your dreams ! Apropos, how do you 
like this thought in a ballad, I have just now 
on the tapis ? 

I look to the west when I gae to rest, 

That happy my dreams and my slumbers may 
be; 

Far, far in the west 13 he I lo'e best, 
The lad that is dear to my babie and me ! 

ftood night, once more, and God bless you ! 

R. B. 



CCXI. 
TO MR. ALEXANDER DALZEL, 

FACTOR, FINDLATSTON. 

[Cromek nays that Alexander Dalzel introduced the 
jipetry of Burns to the notice of tlieEarl of Glencairn, who 
<B''rie«l liia Kilmarnock edition with him to Edinburgh, 



and begged that the poet would let hira know whet hi* 
views ir. the world were, that he might furtier them J 

Ellisland, 19th March, 1791. 
My Sear Sir, 

I HAVE taken the liberty to frank this letter 
to you, as it encloses an idle poem < f mine, 
which I send you; and God knows y:u raaj 
perhaps pay dear enough for it if you read it 
through. Not that this is my own opinion; ha< 
the author, by the time he has compose 1 an'j 
corrected his work, has quite pored away all 
his powers of critical discrimination. 

I can easily guess from my own heart, what 
you have felt on a late most melancholy event. 
God knows what 1 have suffered, at the loss of 
my best friend, my first and dearest patron and 
benefactor ; the man to whom I owe all that I 
am and have ! I am gone into mourning for 
him, and with more sincerity of grief than I 
fear some will, who by nature's ties ought to 
feel on the occasion. 

I will be exceedingly obliged to you, indeed, 
to let me know the news of the noble family, 
how the poor mother and the two sisters sup- 
port their loss. I had a packet of poetic baga- 
telles ready to send to Lady Betty, when I saw 
the fatal tidings in the newspaper. I see by the 
same channel that the honoured remains of my 
noble patron, are designed to be brought to the 
family burial-place. Dare I trouble you to let 
me know privately before the day of interment, 
that I may cross the country, and steal among 
the crowd, to pay a tear to the last sight of my 
ever revered benefactor ? It will oblige me 
beyond expression. R. B. 



ccxn. 
TO MRS. GRAHAM, 

OF FINTRAT. 

[Mrs. Graham, of Fintray, felt both as a lady and k 
Scottish one, the tender Lament of the fair and unfoTtS* 
nate princess, which this letter contained,] 

Ellisland, 1791. 
Madam, 
Whether it is that the story of our Mary 
Queen of Scots has a peculiar effect on the 
feelings of a poet, or whether I have, in the en- 
closed ballad, succeeded beyond my usual poetio 
success, I know not ; but it has pleased me be- 
yond any effort of my muse for a good whilf 



OF EGBERT BURNS. 



t3t 



past; OE that account T enclose it particularly 
to you. It is true, the purity of my motives 
may be suspected. I am already deeply in- 
deV+ed to Mr. Graham's goodness ; and what, in 
the usual ways of men, is of infinitely greater im- 
portance, Mr. G. can do me service of the ut- 
most impo.»"tance in time to come. I was born a 
f lor dog ; and however I may occasionally pick 
ft better bone than I used to do, I know I must 
live and die poor: but I will indulge the flatter- 
ing faith that my j letry will considerably out- 
live my poverty ; and without any fustian aflTec- 
tationof spirit, I can promise and affirm, that it 
mnst be no ordinary craving of the latter saall 
ever make me do anything injurious to the honest 
fame of the former. Whatever may be my 
failings, for failings are a part of human nature, 
may they ever be those of a generous heart, and 
an independent mind ! It is no fault of mine 
that I was born to dependence ; nor is it Mr. 
Graham's chiefest praise that he can command 
influence ; but it is his merit to bestow, not only 
with the kindness of a brother, but with the 
politeness of a gentleman ; and I trust it shall 
be mine, to receive with thankfulness, and re- 
member with undiminished gratitude. 

R. B. 



CCXIII. 
TO MRS. GRAHAM, 

or FINTRAT. 

j^l'he fo'i'.owing letter was written on the blank leaf of 
t new edition, of his poems, presented by the poet, to one 
whom he regaivied, and justly, as a, patroness.] 

It is probable. Madam, that this page may 
be read, when the hand that now writes it shall 
fce mouldering in the dust: may it then bear 
witness, that I present you these volumes as 
a tribute of gratitude, on my part ardent and 
sincere, as your and Mr. Graham's goodness 
to mc has been generous and noble ! May every 
child of yours, in the hour of need, find such a 
friend as I shall teach every child o^ mine, that 
tiheir father found in you. 

R. B. 



CCXIV. 
TO THE REV. G. BAIRD. 



,'It was proposed to publish a new edition of the poems 
tf M 5h8<*I Bruce, by subscription, and give the rrofits 



to his mother, a woman »ighty years old, and poor aM 
lielpless, and Burns was asked for a poem to giv« a net* 
impulse to the publication.] 

Ellisland, 179] 
Reverend Sir, 
Why did you, my dear Sir, write to me u 
such a hesitating style on the business of pool 
Bruce ? Don't I know, and have I not felt, th« 
many ills, the peculiar ills that poetic flesb ia 
heir to ? You shall have your choice of all the 
unpublished poems I have; and had your letter 
had my direction, so as to have reached me 
sooner (it only came to my hand this moment), 
I should have directly put you out of suspense 
on the subject. I only ask, that some prefatory 
advertisement in the book, as well as the sub- 
scription bills, may bear, that the publication 
is solely for the benefit of Bruce's mother. I 
would not put it in the power of ignorance to 
surmise, or malice to insinuate, that 1 clubbed 
a share in the work from mercenary motives. 
Nor need you give me credit for any remark- 
able generosity in my part of the business. I 
have such a host of peccadilloes, failings, follies, 
and backslidings^ (anybody but myself might 
perhaps give some of them a worse appellation), 
that by way of some balance, however trifling, 
in the account, I am fain to do any good that 
occurs in my very limited power to a fellow- 
creature, just for the selfish purpose of clearing 
a little the vista of retrospection. 

R. B. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

[Francis Wallace Burns, the godson of Mrs. Dunlop, 
to whom tti\s letter refers, died at the age of fourtee*. 
he was a jine and a promising youth.] 

Ellisland, 11th April, 1791. 
I AM once more able, my honoured friend, to 
return you, with my own hand, thanks for the 
many instances of your friendship, and particu- 
larly for your kind anxiety in this last disaster, 
that my evil genius had in store for me. How- 
ever, life is chequered — joy and sorrow — for on 
Saturday morning last, Mrs. Burns made me a 
present of a fine boy ; rather stouter, but not 
so handsome as your godson was at his time of 
life. Indeed I look on your little namesake tc 
be my chef d'ceuvre in that species of manufac 
ture, as I look on Tam o' Shanter to be mj 
standard performance in the poetical line 'Til 



fo5 



GENERAL COREESPONDF^^CE 



true, both the one and the other discover a spice 
»f roguish waggery, that might perhaps be as 
well spared; but then they also show, in my 
opinion, a force of genius and a finishing polish 
that I despair of ever excelling. Mrs. Burns is 
getting stout again, and laid as lustily about her 
to- day at breakfast, as a reaper from the corn- 
ridge. That is the peculiar privilege and bless- 
ing of our hale, sprightly damsels, that are bred 
among the hay and heather. We cannot hope for 
that highly polished mind, that charming deli- 
cacy of soul, which is found among the female 
world in the more elevated stations of life, and 
which is certainly by far the most bewitching 
charm in the famous cestus of Venus. It is in- 
deed such an inestimable treasure, that where 
it can be had in its native heavenly purity, un- 
stained by some one or other of the many shades 
of affectation, and unalloyed by some one or 
other of the many species of caprice, I declare 
to Heaven, I should think it cheaply purchased 
at the expense cf every other earthly good! 
But as this angelic creature is, I am afraid, 
extremely rare in any station and rank of life, 
and totally denied to such a humble one as mine, 
we meaner mortals must put up with the next 
rank of female excellence — as fine a figure and 
face we can produce as any rank of life what- 
ever ; rustic, native grace ; unaffected modesty, 
and unsullied puril'^ ature's mother-wit, and 
the rudiments ot taste ; a simplicity of soul, un- 
suspicious of, because unacquainted with, the 
crooked ways of a selfish, interested, disingenu- 
ous world ; and the dearest charm of all the rest,. 
a yielding sweetness of disposition, and a gener- 
ous warmth of heart, grateful for love on our 
part, and ardently glowing with a more than 
equal return ; these, with a healthy frame, a 
Boand, vigorous constitution, which your higher 
ranks can scarcely ever hope to enjoy, are the 
eharms of lovely woman in my humble walk of 
'\fe. 

This is the greatest effort my broken arm has 
/6t made. Do let me hear, by first post, how 
iher petit Monsieur comes on with his small-pox. - 
May almighty goodness preserve and restore 
him ! R. B. 



TO 



[That bis works found their way to the newspaiors, 
Bed have occasioned no Surprise : the poet gave copies 



of his favourite pieces freely to his fnends, as soon M 
they were written: who, in their turn, spread their faai* 
among their acquaintances.] 

Ellisland, 1791, 
Dear Sir, 
I AM exceedingly to blame in not writing you 
long ago ; but the truth is, that I am the most 
indolent of all human beings ; 'and when I ma- 
triculate in the herald's oifiee, I intend that 
my supporters shall be two sloths, my crest a 
slow-worm, and the motto, "Deiltakthe fore- 
most." So much by way of apology for not 
thanking you sooner for your kind execution of 
my commission. 

I would have sent you the poem ; but some- 
how or other it found its way into the publio 
papers, where you must have seen it. 
I am ever, dear Sir, 

Yours sincerely, 

R. B. 



TO 



[This singular letter was sent by Burns, it is believed 
to a critic, who had taken him to task about obscure Ian" 
guage, and imperfect grammar.] 

Mlislarid, 1791. 
Thof eunuch of language : thou Englishman, 
who never was south the Tweed : thou servile 
echo of fashionable barbarisms : thou quack, 
vending the nostninr )f empirical elocution: 
thou marriage-maker between vowels and con- 
sonants, on the Gretna-green of caprice : thou 
cobler, botching the flimsy socks of bombast 
oratory : thou blacksmith, hammering the rivets 
of absurdity: thou butcher, imbruing thy hands 
in the bowels of orthography : thou arch- 
heretic in pronunciation: thou pitch-pipe of 
affected emphasis : thou carpenter, mortising the 
awkward joints of "jarring sentences : thou 
squeaking dissonance of cadence : thou pimp of 
gender: thou Lion Herald to silly etymology: 
thou antipode of grammar : thou executioner of 
construction : thou brood of the speech-distract- 
ing builders of the Tower of Babel ; thou lingual 
confusion worse confounded : thou scape-gaUowS 
from the land of syntax: thou scavenger of 
mood and tense : thou murderous accoucheur 
of infant. learning; thou ignis fatuus, misleading 
the steps of benighted ignorance : thou pickle- 
herring in the puppet-show of nonsense : thou 
faithful recorder of barbarous idiom: thov 



OF E0B]ERT buens. 



4^ 



persecutor of syllabication : thou baleful meteor, 
foretelling and facilitating the rapid approach 
af Nox and Erebus. R. B. 



TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

["To Clarke, the Schoolmaster, Burns, it is said, ad- 
iressed several letters, which on his death were put into 
the fire by his widow, because of their license of lan- 
aage.] 

11th June, 1791. 

Let me interest you, my dear Cunningham, 
in behalf of the gentleman who waits on you 
with this. He is a ]\ir. Clarke, of Moffat, prin- 
cipal schoolmaster there, and is at present suf- 
fering severely under the persecution of one or 
two powerful individuals of his employers. He 
is accused of harshness to boys that were 
placed under his care. God help the teacher, 
if a man of sensibility and genius, and such is 
my friend Clarke, when a booby father presents 
him with his booby son, and insists on lighting 
up the rays of science, in a fellow's head whose 
skull is impervious and inaccessible by any 
other way than a positive fracture with a cud- 
gel : a fellow whom in fact it savours of impiety 
to attempt making a scholar of, as he has been 
marked a blockhead in the book of fate, at the 
almighty fiat of his Creator. 

The patrons of Moffat-school are, the minis- 
ters, magistrates, and town-council of Edin- 
burgh, and as the business comes now before 
theUi, let me beg my dearest friend to do every- 
thing in his power to serve the interests of a 
man of genius and worth, and a man whom I 
particularly respect and esteem. You know 
some good fello-n:s among the magistracy and 
council, but particularly you have much to say 
with a reverend gentleman to whom you have the 
honour of being very nearly related, and whom 
this country and age have had the honour to pro- 
duce. I need not name the historian of Charles 
V". I tell him through the medium of his 
nephew's influence, that Mr. Clarke is a gentle- 
man who will not disgrace even his patronage. 
I know the merits of the cause thoroughly, and 
gay it, that my friend is falling a sacrifice to 
prejudiced ignorance. 

God help the children of dependence ! Hated 
sud persecuted by their enemies, and too often, 
alas ! dlmost unexceptirnably, received by their 



friends with disrespect and reproach, under the 
thin disguise of cold civility and humiliating 
adfice. 0! to be a sturdy savage, stalking ic 
the pride of his independence, amid the solitary 
wilds of his deserts ; rather than in civilizeS 
life, helplessly to tremble for «i subsistence, 
precarious as the caprice of a fellow-cre%ture t 
Every man has his virtues, and no man :« with.- 
out his failings ; and curse '. n that privileged 
plain-dealing of friendship, which, in the hoar 
of my calamity, cannot reach forth the helping 
hand with'^ut at the same time pointing out 
those fail' igs, and apportioning them their 
share in jirocuring my present distress. My 
friends, for such the world calls ye, and such ye 
think yourselves to be, pass by my virtues ii 
you please, but do, also, spare my follies : the 
first will witness in my breast for themselves, 
and the last will give pain enough to the inge - 
nuous mind without you. And since deviating 
more or less from the paths of propriety and 
rectitude, must be incident to human nature, do 
thou, Fortune, put it in my power, always from 
myself, and of myself, to bear the consequence 
of those errors ! I do not want to be inde- 
pendent that I may sin, but I want to be inde 
pendent in my sinning. 

To return in this rambling letter to the sub- 
ject I set out with, let me recommend my friend, 
Mr. Clarke, to your acquaintance and good of- 
fices; his worth entitles him to the one, and hia 
gratitude will meyit the other. I long much to 
hear from you. 

Adieu ! 



CCXIX. 

TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN. 

[Lord Buchan printed this letter in his Essay on th.« 
Life of Thomson, in 1792. His lordship invited Buri.g ts 
leave his corn unreaped , walk from Ellisland to Prybu''gfik 
and help him to crown Thomson's bust with bays, ob Ed 
nam Hill, on the 22d of September.] 

Ellisland, August 2^th, 1791. 
My Lord, 
Language sinks under the ardour of my fefel 
ings when I would thank your lordship for the 
honour you have done me in inviting me to make 
one at the coronation of the bust of Thomson. 
In my first enthusiasm in reading the card you 
did me the honour to write me, I overlooked 



•♦2« 



GENEKAL CORRESPONDENCE 



every obstacle, and determined to go ; but "I fear 
It will not be in my power. A week or two's 
absence, in the very middle of my harvest, is 
what I much doubt I dare not venture on. I 
once already made a pilgrimage up the whole 
cour«e of the Tweed, and fondly would I take 
the same delightful journey down the windings 
fif that delightful stream. 

Your lordship hints at an ode for the occasion: 
but who would write after Collins ? I read 
over his verses to the memory of Thomson, and 
despaired. — I got indeed to the length of three 
or four stanzas, in the way of add, ess to the 
shade of the bard, on crowning his bust. I 
shall trouble your lordship with the subjoined 
copy of them, which, I am afraid, will be but too 
convincing a proof how unequal I am to the 
task. II iwever, it affords me an opportunity 
of approaching your lordship, and declaring how 
sincerely and gratefully I have the honour to 
be. &c., R. B. 



TO MR. THOMAS SLOAN. 

[Thomas Sloan was a west of Scotland man, and seems, 
though not much in correspondence, to have been on inti- 
mate terms with Barns.] 

Ellisland, Sept. 1, 1791. 
My DEATi Sloan, • 

Suspense is worse than disappointment, for 
that reason I hurry to tell you that I just now 
learn that Mr. Ballantyne does not choose to 
interfere more in the business. I am truly 
sorry for it, but cannot help it. 

You blame me for not writing you sooner, 
but you will please to recollect that you omitted 
one little necessary piece of information ; — your 
address. 

However, you know equally well, my hurried 
life, indolent temper, and strength of attach- 
ment. It must be a longer period than the 
Jongfcst life " in the world's hale and undegene- 
rate days," that will make me forget so dear a 
friend as Mr. Sloan. I am prodigal enough at 
rimes, but I will not part with such a treasure 
as that. 

I can easily enter into the embarras of your 
present situation. You know my favourite quo- 
tation from Young — 

. " On leason build Resolve ? 

ThJ col\inin of true majesty m man;" 



and that other favourite one from Thomson' 
Alfred— 

" What proves the hero truly great, 
Is never, never to despair." 

Or shall I quote you an author of your ao 
quaintance ? 

" Whether doins, suffering, ci fokbsjik Mft. 

You may do miracles by— persevering." 

I have nothing new to tell you. The fe-w 
friends we have are going on in the old way 
I sold my crop on this day se'ennight, and 9ol3 
it very well. A guinea an acre, on an average, 
above value. But such a scene of drunkenness 
was hardly ever seen in this country. Aftel 
the roup was over, about thirty people engaged 
in a battle, every man for. his own hand, an J 
fought it' out for three hours. Nor was the 
scene much' better in the house. No fighting, 
indeed, but folks lying drunk on the floor, and 
decanting, until both my dogs got so drunk by 
attending them, that they could not stand You 
will easily guess how I enjoyed the scene ; as I 
was no farther over than you used to see me. 

Mrs. B. and family have been in Ayrshire 
these many weeks. 

Earewell ; and God bless you, my dear friend ) 
R. B. 



TO LADY E. CUNNINGHAM. 

[The poem enclosed was the Lament for James, Ear) 
of Glencairn : it is probable that the Earl's sister 1 kej 
the verses, for Jiey were printed soon afterwards.] 

My Lady, 
I WOULD,, as usual, have availed myself of thf 
privilege your goodness has allowed me, of send- 
ing you anything I compose in my poetical way ; 
but as I had resolved, so soon as the shock oi 
my irreparable loss would allow me, to pay a 
tribute to my late benefactor, I determined ta 
make that the first piece I should do myself the 
honour of sending y^u. ' Had the wing oi ray 
fancy been equal to the ardour of my heart tht 
enclosed had been much more worthy your peru- 
sal : as it is, I beg leave to lay it at your lady- 
ship's feet. As all the world knows mv obliga- 
tions to the late Earl of Glencairn, I would wish 
to shew as openly that my heart glows, and will 
ever glow, with the most grateful sense and re- 
membrance of his lordsHip's goodness. Thi 



OF ROBJiiKr BURNS. 



m 



sables I did myself the honour to wear to his 
lordship's memory, were not the "mockery of 
woe." Nor shall my gratitude perish with me ! 
— if among my children I shall have a son that 
h aa a heart, he shall hand it down to his child 
as a family honour, and a family debt, that 
my dearest existence I owe to the noble house 
of Glencairn ! 

I was about to say, my lady, that if you think 
the poem may venture to see the light, I would, 
lu some way or other, give it to the world. 

R. B. 



TO MR. AINSLIE. 

[It has been said thatthe poet loved to aggravate his fol- 
lies ^o his friends : but that this tone of aggravation was 
often ironital, th.s Icttor, as we'.' as 'rtiieri., jugfe. be 
»ited.] 

Ellislana, 1791. 
Mt deak Ainslie, 

Can you minister to a mind diseased ? can 
you, amid the horrors of penitence, remorse, 

head-ache, nausea, and all the rest of the d d 

hounds of hell, that beset a poor wretch, who 
has been guilty of the sin of drunkenness — can 
you speak peace to a troubled soul ? 

Miserable perdu that I am, I have tried every- 
thing that used to amuse me, but in vaiii : here 
must I sit, a monument of the vengeance laid 
up in store for the wicked, slowly counting every 
chick of the clock as it slowly, slowly, numbers 
aver these lazy scoundrels of hours, who, d — n 
them, are ranked up before me, every one at 
his neighbour's backside, and every one with a 
burthen of anguish on his back, to pour on my 
devoted head — and there is none to pity me. 
My wife scolds me ! my business torments me, 
and my sins come staring me in the face, every 
one telling a more bitter tale than his fellow. — 
When I tell you even * * * has lost its power 
to please, you will guess something of my hell 
within, and all around me — I begun Elibanks 
•Ad Elibraes, but the stanzas fell unenjoyed, and 
nafinished from my listless tongue : at last I 
luckily thought pf reading over an old letter of 
yourS; that lay by me in my book-case, and I 
felt something for the first time since I opened 
my eyes, of pleasurable oxistence. — , — Well — 
I begin to breathe a little, since I began to write 
ic you. How are you, and what are you doing ? 
How goes Law? Apropos, for connexion's sake, 
ia not address to me supervisor, for that is an 



honour I cannot pretend to — ^I am on the list, 
as we call it, for a supervisor, and wiU be called 
out by and bye to act as one ; but at pre- 
sent, I am a simple ganger, tho' t'other day I 
got an appointment to an excise division of 26i. 
per annvm better than the rest. Mj "^esonl 
inccme, down money, is 70Z. per annum. 

I have one or two good fellows here VQ^^Ot 
you would be glad to know, 

3, B. 



TO COL. FULLARTON. 

OF FULLAETON. 



[This letter was 
Chrcmicle.] 



published in the Edinbufyo 



Ellisland, 1791. 



I HAVE just this minute got the frank, and 
next minute must send it to post, else I purposed 
to have sent you two or three other bagatelles, 
that might have amused a vacant hour about 
as well as " Six excellent new songs," or, the 
Aberdeen ' Prognosticationfor the year to come.' 
I shall probably trouble you soon with anotber 
packet. About the gloomy month of November, 
when 'the people of England hang and drown 
themselves,' anything generally is better than 
one's own thought. 

Fond as I may be of my own productions, it 
is not for their sake that I am so anxious to 
send you them. I am ambitious, covetously 
ambitious of being known to a gentleman whom 
I am proud to call my countryman ; a gentle- 
man who was a foreign ambassador as soon aa 
he was a man, and a leader of armies as soon 
as he was a soldier, and that with rn eclat un- 
known to the usual minions of a court, men 
who, with all the adventitious advantages of 
princely connexions and princely fortune, rQasl 
yet, like the caterpillar, labour a whole lifetime 
before they reach the wished height, there tc 
roost a stupid chrysalis, and doze out the re- 
maining glimmei'ing existence of old age 

If the gentleman who accompanied you when 
you did me the honour of calling on me, is wf ih 
you, I beg to be respectfully remembered t« 
him. 

I have the honour to be. 

Sir, 
Your highly obliged, and most devcteo 
Humble servant, 

R.B 



t40 



GENEKAL CORKESPONDENCE 



TO MISS DAyiES. 

[This accomplished lady was the young 3st daughter 
»f Dr. Davies, of Tenby, in Pembrokeshire : she was re- 
iated to the Riddels of Friar's Carse, and oie of her sis- 
,e-s married Captain Adam Gordon, of the noble family 
J Keamure. She had both taste and skill in verse.] 

It is impossible, Madam, that the generous 
warmth and angelic purity of your youthful 
toind, can have any idea of that moral disease 
under which I unhappily must rank as the chief 
of sinners; I mean a torpitude of the moral 
powers, that may be called, a lethargy of con- 
science. In vain Remorse rears her horrent 
crest, and rouses all her snakes ; beneath the 
deadly fixed eye and leaden hand of Indolence, 
their wildest ire is charmed into the torpor of 
the bat, slumbering out the rigours of winter, 
in the chink of a ruined wall. Nothing less, 
Madam, could have made me so long neglect 
your obliging commands. Indeed I had one 
apology — the bagatelle was not worth present- 
ing. Besides, so strongly am I interested in 
Miss Davies's fate and welfare in the serious 
business of life, amid its chances and changes, 
that to make her the subject of a silly ballad 
is downright mockery of these ardent feel- 
ings ; 'tis like an impertinent jest to a dying 
friend. 

Gracious Heaven ! why this disparity between 
our wishes and our powers ? Why is the most 
generous wish to make others blest, impotent 
and ineffectual — as the idle breeze that crosses 
the pathless desert! In my walks of life I 
have met with a few people to whom how gladly 
would I have said — "Go, be happy! I know 
that your hearts have been wounded by the 
scon cf the proud, whom accident has placed 
above you- -or worse still, in whose hands are, 
perhaps, pla.ced many of the comforts of your 
ii'e. But there ! ascend that rock, Indepen- 
Jeice, and look justly down on their little- 
ness of soul. Make the worthless tremble 
under your indignation, and the foolish sink 
before your contempt ; and largely impart that 
happiness to others, which, I am certain, will 
give yourselves so much pleasure to bestow." 

Why, dear Madam, must I wake from this 
(e'-ghtful revery, and find it all a dream? 
Why, amid my generous enthusiasm, must I 
find myself poor and powerless, incapable of 
piping one tear from the eye of pity, or of add- 



ing one comfort to the friend I love ! — Out upon 
the world, say I, that its affairs are adminis- 
tered so ill ! They talk of reform ; — good Hea 
ven ! what a reform would I make among th« 
sons and even the daughters of men ! — Down 
immediately, should go fools fiom the high 
places, where misbegotten chance has perked 
them up, and through life should they skulk, 
ever haunted by their native insignificance, as 
the body marches accompanied by its shadow. 
— As for a much more formidable class, the 
knaves, I am at a loss what to do with them : 
had I a world, there should not be a knave 
in it. 

But the hand that could give^ I would libe- 
rally fill : and I would pour delight on the 
heart that could kindly forgive, and generously 
love. 

Still the inequalities of life are, among men, 
comparatively tolerable — but there is a delicacy, 
a tenderness, accompanying every view in which 
we can place lovely Woman, that are grated 
and shocked at the rude, capricious distinc- 
tions of fortune. Woman is the blood-royal of 
life : let there be slight degrees of precedency 
among them — but let them be all sacred. — ■ 
Whether this last sentiment be right or wrongs 
I am not accountable ; it is an original compo- 
nent feature of my mind. R. B. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

[Burns, says Cromek, acknowledged that a refined ana 
accomplished woman was a being all but new to him 
till he went to Edinburgh, and received letters from Mrs, 
Dunlop.] 

Ellisland, llth December, 1791 
Many thanks to you. Madam, for your good 
news respecting the little floweret and the mo- 
ther-plant. I hope my poetic prayers hav6 
been heard, and will be answered up to the 
warmest sincerity of their fullest extent ; and 
then Mrs. Henri will find her little darling the 
representative of his late parent, in everything 
but his abridged existence. 

I have just finished the following song, which 
to a lady the descendant of Wallace — and many 
heroes of his true illustrious line — and herself 
the mother of several soldiers, needs neither 
preface nor apology. 



OF EOBEET BURNS. 



441 



•^ Scene — a field of battle — time of the day, evening ; 
the wounded and dying of the victorious army are 
„• join in the following 



SONG OF DEATH. 

Far«w«!!^ , thou fair day, thou green earth, and 
je skies 
Now gay with the bright setting sun ; 
farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear tender 
ties — 
Our race of existence is run ! 

The circumstance that gave rise to the fore- 
going Terses was, looking over with a musical 
friend M'Donald's collection of Highland airs, 
I was struck with one, an Isle of Skye tune, 
epkiled "Oran and Aoig, or. The Song of 
Death," to the measure of which I have adapted 
toy stanzas. I have of late composed two or 
three other little pieces, which, ere yon full- 
orbed moon, whose broad impudent face now 
stares at old mother earth all night, shall have 
shrunk into a modest crescent, just peeping 
forth at dewy dawn, I shall find an hour to tran- 
«cribe for you. A Dieuje vous commends. 

K. B. 



CCXXVI. 
TO MUS. DUNLOP. 

[That the poet spoke mildly concerning the rebuke 
which he received from the Bxcise, on what he calls his 
political delinquencies, his letter to Krskine of Mar suffi- 
ftantly proves.] 

bth January, 1792. 

You see my hurried life. Madam : I can only 
command starts of time ; however, I am glad of 
one thing ; since I finished the other sheet, the 
political bla> that threatened my welfare is 
overblown. 1 have corresponded with Commis- 
noncr Graham, for the board had made me the 
subject of their animadversions ; and now I 
kave the pleasure of informing you, that all is 
get to rights in that quarter. Now as to these 

jiformers, may the devil be let loose to 

but, hold ! I v^as praying most fervently in my 
last sheet, and I must not so soon fall a swear- 
ing in this. 

Alas ! how little do the wantonly or idly of- 
ficious think what mischief they do by their ma- 
licious insinuations, indirect impertinence, or 
thoughtless Mabbings. What a difference there 



is in intrinsic worth, candour, benevolence, ge« 
nerosity, kindness, — in all the charities and 
all the virtues, between one class of human 
beings and another ! For instance, the amiable 
circle I so lately mixed with in the hospitable 
hall of Dunlop, their generous hearts — theit 
uncontaminated dignified minds — their informed 
and polished understandings — what a contrast, 
when compared — if such comparing were not 
downright sacrilege — with the soul of the mis- 
creant who can deliberately plot the destruction 
of an honest man that never offended him, and 
with a grin of satisfaction see the unfortunate 
being, his faithful wife, and prattling innocents, 
turned over to beggary and ruin ! 

Your cup, my dear Madam, arrived safe. 1 
had two worthy fellows dining with me the 
other day, when I, with great formality, pro- 
duced my whigmeeleerie cup, and told them 
that it had been a family-piece among the de 
scendants of William Wallace. This roused 
such an enthusiasm, that they insisted on bum- 
pering the punch round in it ; and by and by, 
never did your great ancestor lay a Suthron 
more completely to rest, than for a time did 
your cup my two friends. Apropos, this is the 
season of wishing. My God bless you, my dear 
friend, and bless me, the humblest and sincerest 
of your friends, by granting you yet many re- 
turns of the season ! May all good things at- 
tend you and yours wherever they are scattered 
over the earth I 

R. B 



ccxxVii. 
TO MR. WILLIAM SMELLIE 

PKINTEK.. 

[When Burns sends his warmest wishes to SmeMie ii,%e. 
prays that fortune may never place his subsistence a tf« 
mercy of a knave, or set his character on the judgmen 
of a fool, he had his -olitical enemies probably in hi 
mind.] 

Dumfries, 22J January, 1792. 
I SIT down, my dear Sir, to introduce ix young 
lady to you, and a lady in the first ranks of 
fashion too. What a task ! to you — who care no 
more for the herd of animals called young la- 
dies, than you do for the herd of animals called 
young gentlemen. To you — who despise and 
detest the groupings and combinations of fashion, 



412 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



as an idiot painter that seems industrious to 
place staring fools and unprincipled knaves in 
the foreground of his picture, while men of 
sense and honesty are too often thrown in the 
dimmest shades. Mrs. Pdddel, who will take 
this letter to town with her, and send it to you, 
is a character that, even in your own way, as 
a naturalist and a philosopher, would be an 
Boquisition to your acquaintance. The lady, 
too, is a votary to the muses ; and as I think 
Eiyself somewhat of a judge in my own trade, 
I assure you that her verses, always correct, 
and often elegant, are much beyond the com- 
mon run of the lady-poetesses of the day. She 
is a great admirer of your book ; and, hearing 
me say that I was acquainted with you, she 
begged to be known to you, as she is just going 
to pay her first visit to our Caledonian capital. 
I told her that her best way was, to desire her 
near relation, and your intimate triend, Craig- 
darroch, to have you .at his house while she 
was there ; and lest you might think of a lively 
West Indian girl, of eighteen, as girls of eigh- 
teen too often deserve to be thought of, I should 
take care to remove that prejudice. To be im- 
partial, however, in appreciating the lady's 
merits, she has one unlucky failing : a failing 
which you will easily discover, as she seems 
rather pleased with indulging in it; and a fail- 
ing that you will easily pardon, as it is a sin 
which very much besets yourself; — where she 
dislikes, or despises, she is apt to make no more 
a secret of it, than where she esteems and 
fespects. 

I will not present you with the unmeaning 
compliments of the seaso7i, but I will send you my 
warmest wishes and most ardent prayers, that 
Fortune may never throw your subsistence to 
the mercy of a Knave, or set your character 
on the judgment of a Fool ; but that, upright 
and erect, you may walk to an honest grave, 
where men of letters shall say, here lies a man 
who did honour to science, and men of worth 
shall say, here lies a man who did honour to 
human aature. B. B. 



ccxxvni. 

TO MR. W. NICOL. 
[This ironical letter was in answer to one from Nicol, 
untaining counsel and reproof.] 

20th February, 1792. 
1 THOU, wiisest among the wise, meridian blaze 



of prudence, full-moon of disci etian, and chief 
of many counsellors ! How infinitely is thy 
puddle-headed, rattle-headed, wrong-headed, 
round-headed slave indebted to thy super-emi« 
nent goodness, that from '.he luminous paih of 
thy own right-lined rectitude, thou lo ikest be- 
nignly down on an erring -trretch, cf whom lit 
zig-zag wanderings defy all the powers of ctd- 
culation, from the simple copulation of units, 
up to the hidden mysteries of fluxions ! Maj 
one feeble ray of that light of wisdom which 
darts from thy sensorium, straight as the arrow 
of heaven, and bright as the meteor of inspira- 
tion, may it be my portion^ so that I may be 
less unworthy of the face and favour of that 
father of proverbs and master of maxims, that 
antipode of folly, and magnet among the sages, 
the wise and witty Willie Nicol ! Amen ! Amen ! 
Yf^a, so be it ! 

For me ! 1 am a beast, a reptile, and know 
nothing ! From the cave of my ignorance, amid 
the fogs of my dulness, and pestilential fumea 
of my political heresies, I look up to thee, as 
doth a toad through the iron-barred lucerne of 
a pestiferous dungeon, to the cloudless glory of 
a summer sun ! Sorely sighing in bitterness of 
Boul, I say, when shall my name be the quota- 
tion of the wise, and my countenance be the 
delight of the godly, like the illustrious lord ol 
Laggan's many hills ? As for him, his works 
are perfect : never did the pen of calumny blur 
the fair page of his reputation, nor the bolt of 
hatred fly at his dwelling. 

Thou mirror of purity, when shall the elfine 
lamp of my glimmerous understanding, purged 
from sensual appetites and gross desires, shine 
like the constellation of thy intellectual powers! 
— As for thee, thy thoughts are pure, and thy 
lips are holy. Never did the unhallowed breath 
of the p jwers of darkness, and the pleasures of 
darkness, pollute the sacred flame of thy sky- 
descended and heaven-bound desires : never did 
the vapours of impurity stain the unclouded 
serene of thy cerulean imagination. that like 
thine were the tenor of my life, like thine the 
tenor of my conversation ! then should no friend 
fear for my strength, no enemy rejoice in my 
weakness ! Then should I lie down and rise up, 
and none to make me afraid. — May thy pity 
and thy prayer be exercised for, thou lamp 
of wisdom and mirror of morality ! thy devoted 
slave. R. B. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



444 



CCXXIX. 

TO FRANCIS GROSE, ESQ., F.S.A. 

•■Captain Grose was introduced to Burns, by h.s brother 
JUltiquary, of Fria' s Carse : he was collecting materials 
'ar ni8 woik o-: 'I'^i Antiquities of Scotland.] 



SiJ-, 



Dimnfries, 1792. 



! BELijKiB among all our Scots Literati you 
feftTS not met with Professor Dugald Stewart, 
who fills the moral philosophy chair in the Uni- 
versity of Edinburgh. To say that he is a man 
cf the first parts, and what is more, a man of 
the first worth, to a gentleman of your general 
acquaintance, and who so much enjoys the 
luxury of unencumbered freedom and undis- 
<;urbed privacy, is not perhaps recommendation 
enough: — but when I inform you that Mr. 
Stewart's principal characteristic is your fa- 
vourite feature ; that sterling independence of 
mind, which, though every man's right, so few 
men have the courage to claim, and fewer still, 
the magnanimity to support: — when I tell you 
that, unseduced by splendour, and undisgusted 
by wretchedness, he appreciates the merits of 
the various actors in the great drama of life, 
merely as they perform their parts — in short, 
he is a man after your own heart, and I comply 
with his earnest request in letting you know 
that he wishes above all things to me«t with 
you. His house, Catrine, is within less than a 
mile of Sorn Castle, which you proposed visit- 
ing ; or if you could transmit him the enclosed, 
he would with the greatest pleasure meet you 
anywhere in the neighbourhood. I write to 
Ayrshire to inform Mr. Stewart that I have 
acquitted myself of my promise. Should your 
time and spiiits permit your meeting with Mr. 
Btewartj 'tis well; if not, I hope you will for- 
give this liberty, and I have at least an oppor- 
tunity cf assvijing you with what truth and 
»jop» ct, 

T am.. Sir, 

Your great admirer. 

And very humble servant, 

R. B, 



CCXXX. 

TO FRANCIS GROSE, ESQ., F.S.A. 

This ietts- interesting !o all who desire to see how a 
poet works beauty and regularity out of a vulgar tradi- 
tion, was first piiLted by Sir Egerton Brydges, in the 
•Censura Literana."] 



Dumfries, 1792. 

Among the many witch stories I have heard, 
relating to Alloway kirk, I distinctly loraembei 
only two or three. 

Upon a stormy night, amid whistling squalls 
of wind, and bitter blasts of hail ; in short, oa 
such a night as the devil would choose to tak« 
the air in ; a farmer or farmer's servant was plod 
ding and plashing homeward with his plough • 
irons on his shoulder, having been getting some 
repairs on them at a neighbouring smithy. His 
way lay by the kirk of Alloway, and being ra- 
ther on the anxious look-out in approaching a 
place so well known to be a favourite haunt of 
the devil and the devil's friends and emissaries, 
he was struck aghast by discovering through 
the horrors of the storm and stormy night, a 
light, which on his nearer approach plainly 
showed itself to proceed from the h.rate-^'' 
edifice. Whether he had been fortified from 
above, on his devout supplication, as is custo- 
mary with people when they suspect the imme- 
diate presence of Satan ; or whether, according 
to another custom, he had got courageously 
drunk at the smithy, I will not pretend to deter- 
mine ; but so it was that he ventured to go up 
to, nay, into, the very kirk. As luck would have 
it, his temerity came off unpunished. 

The members of the infernal junto were all 
out on some midnight business or other, and he 
saw nothing but a kind of kettle or caldron, de- 
pending from the roof, over the fire, simmering 
some heads of unchristened children, limbs of 
executed malefactors, &c., for the business of 
the night. — It was in for a penny in for a pound, 
with the honest ploughman : so without cere- 
mony he unhooked the caldron from off the fire, 
and pouring out the damnable ingredients, in- 
verted it on his head, and carried it fairly home, 
where it remained long in the family, a living 
evidence of the truth of the story. 

Another story, which I can prove to be equally 
authentic, was as follows : 

On a market day in the town of Ayr, a. farmer 
from Carrick, and consequently whose way lay 
by the very gate of Alloway kirk-yard, in order 
to cross the river Doon at the old bridge, which 
is about two or three hundred yards farther oh 
than the said gate, had been detained by his 
business, till by the time he reached Alloway it 
was the wizard hour, between night and morn- 
ing- 

Though he was terrified with a blaze streaus 



144 



GENEKAL CORRESPONDENCE 



ing from the kirk, yet it is a well-known fact 
lliat to turn back on these occasions is run- 
ning by far the greatest risk of mischief, he 
prudently advanced on his road. When he had 
reached the gate of the kirk-yard, he was sur- 
prised and entertained, through the ribs and 
arches of an old gothic window, which still 
faces the highway, to see a dance of witches 
zaerrilj footing it round their old sooty black- 
guard master, who was keeping them all alive 
with the power of his bag-pipe. The farmer 
Btopping his horse to observe them a little, could 
plainly descry the faces of many old women of 
his acquaintance and neighbourhood. Howtiie 
gentleman was dressed tradition does not say ; 
but that the ladies were all in their smocks : 
and one of them happening unluckily to have a 
smock which was considerably too short to an- 
■ swer all the purpose of that piece of dress, our 
farmer was so tickled, that he involuntarily burst 
out, with a loud laugh, " Weel luppen, Maggy 
wi' the short sark!" and recollecting himself, 
instantly spurred his horse to the top of his 
speed. I need not mention the universally 
known fact, that no diabolical power can pur- 
sue you beyond the middle of a running stream. 
Lucky it was for the poor farmer that the river 
Doon was so near, for notwithstanding the speed 
of his horse, which was a good one, against he 
reached the middle of the arch of the bridge, 
and consequently the middle of the stream, the 
pursuing, vengeful hags, were so close at his 
heels, that one of them actually sprung to seize 
him ; but it was too late, nothing was on her 
side of the stream, but the horse's tail, which 
immediately gave way at her infernal grip, as 
if blasted by a stroke of lightning ; but the far- 
mer was beyond her reach. However, the un- 
sightly, tailless condition of the vigorous steed 
was, to the last hour of the noble creature's life, 
an awful warning to the Carrick farmers, not to 
stay too late in Ayr markets. 

The last relation I shall give, though equally 
true, is not so well identified as the two former, 
with regard to the scene ; but as the best au- 
thorities give it for Alloway, I shall relate it. 

On a summer's evening, about the time that 
Bature puts on her sables to mourn the expiry 
of the cheerful day, a shepherd boy, belonging 
to a farmer in the immediate neighbourhood of 
A-lloway kirk, had just folded his charge, and 
uras returning home. As he passed the kirk, in 
)lcB adjoining field, he fell in with a crew of men 



and women, who were busy pulling stems if i2i< 
{ lant Ragwort. He observed that as each per- 
son pulled a Ragwort, he or she got astride of it, 
and called out, " Up horsie !" on which the Rag- 
wort flew off, like Pegasus, through the air with 
its rider. The foolish ooy likewise pulled his 
Ragwort, and cried with the rest, "Up horsie !" 
and, strange to tell, away he flew with the com- 
pany. The ^rst stage at which the cavalcade 
stopt, was a merchant's wine-cellar in Bordeaux, 
where, without saying by your leave, they 
quaffed away at the best the cellar could afford; 
until the morning, foe to the imps and works of 
darkness, threatened to throw light on the mat- 
ter, and frightened them from their carousals. 

The poor shepherd lad, being equally a stran- 
ger to the scene and the liquor, heedlessly got 
himself drunk-; and when the rest took horse, 
he fell asleep, and- was found so next day by 
some of the people belonging to the merchant. 
Somebody that understood Scotch, asking him 
what he was, he said such-a-one's herd in Al- 
loway, and by some means or other getting borne 
again, he lived long to tell the world the won- 
drous tale. 

I am, &c., 

R B. 



CCXXXI. 
TO MR. S. CLARKE, 

EDINBUKGH. 

[This introduction of Clarke, the musician, to the 
M'Murdo's of Drumlanrig, brought to two of the ladiei 
the choicest honours of the muse.] 

July 1, 1792. 
Mr. Btjkns begs leave to present his most' 
respectful compliments to Mr. Clarke. — Mr. B. 
some time ago did himself the honour of writing 
to Mr. C. respecting coming out to the coun- 
try, to give a little musical instruction m s 
highly respectable family, where Mr. C. may 
have his own terms, and may be as happy aa 
indolence, the devil, and the gout will permit 
him. Mr. B. knows well how Mr. C. is en- 
gaged with another family ; but cannot Mr. C. 
find two or three weeks to spare to each of them? 
Mr. B. is deeply impressed with, and awfully 
conscious of, the high importance of Mr. C.'s 
time, whether in the winged moments of sym- 
phonious exhibition, at the keys of harmony, 
while listening seraphs cease their own less d* 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



Uh 



ightful strain s ; or in the drowsy arms of slum- 
is'rous repose, in the arms of his clearly beloved 
ribowchair, where the frowsy, but potent power 
of indolence, circumfuses her vapours round, 
and shed? her dews on the head of her darling 
»on But half a line conveying half a meaning 
from Ml . C. would make Mr. B. the happiest of 
Kortals 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

[To eiithusiastic fits of admiration for the young and 
'.he beautiful, such as Burns has expressed in this ietter, 
he loved to give wav : — we owe some of his best songs 
to these sallies.] 

• Annan Water Foot, 22d August, 1792. 

Do not blame m«! for it, Madam ; — my own 
conscience, hackneyed and weather-beaten as it 
is in watching and reproving my vagaries, fol- 
lies, indolence, &c., has contimied to punish me 

sufficiently. 

* * * * -x- * -x- 

Do you think it possible, my dear and honoured 
friend, that I could be so lost to gratitude for 
many favours ; to esteem for much worth, and 
to the honest, kind, pleasurable tie of, noi^ old 
acquaintance, and I hope and am sure of pro- 
gressive, increasing friendship — as for a single 
day, not to think of you — to ask the Fates what 
they are doing and about to do with my much- 
loved friend and her wide-scattered connexions, 
and to beg <f them to be as kind to you and 
yours as they possibly can ? 

Apropos ' (though how it is apropos, I have 
not leisure to explain,) do you not know that I 
am almost in love with an acquaintance of 
yours ? — Almost ! said I — I am In love, souse ! 
over head and ears, deep as the most unfathom- 
ftlle abyss of the boundless ocean; but the word 
Love, owing to the intermingledoms of the good 
and the bad, the pure and the impure, in this 
world, being rather an equivocal term for ex- 
pressing one's sentiments and seHsationR, I must 
do justice to the sacred purity of my attachment. 
Know, then, that the heart-struck awe ; the 
distant humble approach; the delip-hf we should 
have in gazing upon and listening to a messenger 
of heaven, appearing in all the unspotted purity 
of bis celestial home, among the -coarse, pol- 
luted, far inferior sons of men, to deliver to them 
tdings that make their hearts swim in joy, and 



their imaginations soar in transport — such, a« 
t delighting and so pure, were the emotions of 
i my soul on meeting the other day with Misi 

i Lesley Baillie, your neighbour, at M . Mr 

B. with his two daughters, accompanied by Mr. 
H. of G. passing through Dumfries a few days 
ago, on their way to England, did me the honour 
of calling on me ; on which I took my hf-rsa 
(though God knows I could ill spare the time), 
and accompanied them fourteen or fifteen miles, 
and dined and spent the day with them. 'Twaa 
about nine, I think, when I left 'them, and 
riding home, I composed the following ballad, 
of which you will probably think you have a 
dear bargain, as it will cost you another groat 
of postage. You must know that there is ap 
old ballad beginning with — 

"My bonnle Lizzie Baillie 
I'll rowe thee in my plaidie, &c." 

So I parodied it as follows, which is literally 
the first copy, " un anointed, unanneal'd;" at 
Hamlet says. — 

saw ye bonny Lesley 

As she gaed o'er the border? 

She's gane like Alexander, 

To spread her conquests farther. 

So much for ballads. I regret that you are 
gone to the east country, as I am to be in Ayr- 
shire in about a fortnight. This world of ours, 
notwithstanding it has many good things in it. 
yet it has ever had this curse, that two or three 
people, who would be the happier the oftenei 
they met together, are, almost without exception, 
always so placed as never to meet but once or 
twice a-year, which, considering the few years 
of a man's life, is a very great " evil under the 
sun," which I do not recollect that Solomon has 
mentioned in his catalogue of the miseries of 
man. I hope and believe that there is a state 
of existence beyond the grave, where the worthy 
of this life will renew their former intimacies, 
with this endearing addition, that, " we meet 
to part no more!" 



" Tell us, ye dead, 
Will none of you in pity disclofe the secret. 
What 'tis you are, and we must shc.rtlv be ?" 

A thousand times have I made this apostrophe 
to the departed sons of men, but not one of 
them has ever thought fit to answer the question, 
"0 that some courteous ghost would blab it 
out !" but it cannot be ; you and I. my friend, 



146 



GENEKAL CORKESPONDENCE 



must make the experiment by ourselves and for 
ourselves. However, I am so convinced that 
an unshaken faith in the doctrines of religion 
is not only necessary, by making us better men, 
but also by makicg us happier men, that I should 
take every care that your little godson, and 
every little creatars that shall call me father, 
shall be taught them. 

So ends this heterogeneous letter, written at 
this wild place of the world, in the intervals of 
my labour of discharging a vessel of rum from 
Antigua. { R. B. 



TO ME. CUNNINGHAM. 



[There is both bitterness and humour in this letter : the 
poe* discourses on many matters, and woman is among 
thtm— but he places the bottle at his elbow as an antidote 
Bgiiinst the discourtesy of scandal.] 

Dumfries, IQth September, 1792. 

No ! I will not attempt an apology. — Amid all 
my hurry of business, grinding the faces of the 
publican and the sinner on the merciless wheels 
of the Excise ; making ballads, and then drink- 
ing, and singing them ! and, over and above all, 
the correcting the press-work of two different 
publications ; still, still I might have stolen five 
minutes to dedicate to one of the first of my 
friends and fellow-creatures* I might have done 
as I do at present, snatched an hour near "witch- 
ing time of night," and scrawled a page or two. 
I might have congratulated my friend on his 
marriage ; or I might have thsmked the Cale- 
donian archers for the honour they have done 
me (though, to do myself justice, I intended to 
nave done both in rhyme, else I had done both 
long ere now). Well, then, here's to your good 
health ! for you must know, I have set a nip- 
perkin of toddy by me, just by way of spell, to 
keep away the meikle horned deil, or any of his 
Subaltern iiays who may be on their nightly 
Jounds. 

But what sh|ll I write to you ? — " The voice 
Baid cry," and I said, "what shall I cry?" — 0, 
thou spirit! whatever thou art, or wherever 
thou makest thyself visible ! be thou a bogle by 
thfi eerie side of an auld thorn, in the dreary 
glen through which the herd-callan maun bicker 
*n his gloamia route frae the faulde ! — Be thou 
»br?WHie, set, at dead of night, to thy task by 



the blazing ingle, or in the solitary barn, wher« 
the repercussions of thy iron flail half affright 
thyself as thou performest the work of twenty 
of the sons of men, ere the cock-crowing sum- 
mon thee to thy ample cog of substantial brose— • 
Be thou a kelpie, haunting the ford or ferry, 
in the starless night, mixing thy laughing yell 
with the howling of the storm and the roaring 
of the flood, as thou viewest the perils and raise- 
rj^ of man on the foundering horse, or in the 
tumbling boat! — or, lastly, be thou a ghost, 
paying thy nocturnal visits to the hoary ruins of 
decayed grandeur; or performing thy rrvystio 
rites in the shadow of the time-worn church, 
while the moon looks, without a cloud, on the 
silent ghastly dwellings of the dead around thee ! 
or taking thy stand by the bedside of the villain, 
or the murderer, pourtraying on his dreaming 
fancy, pictures, dreadful as the horrors of un- 
veiled hell, and terrible as the wrath of incensed 
j Deity! — Come, thou spirit, but not in these 
horrid forms ; come with the milder, gentle, easy 
inspirations, which thou breathest round the 
wig of a prating advocate, or the tete of ar'tea- 
sipping gossip, while their tongues run at the 
light-horse gallop of clish-maclaver for ever and 
ever — come and assist a poor devil who is quite 
jaded in the attempt to share half an idea among 
half a hundred words ; to fill up four quarto 
pages, while he has not got one single sentence 
of recollection, information, or remark worth 
putting pen to paper for. 

I feel, I feel the presence of supernatural as- 
sistance ! circled in the embrace of my elbow- 
chair, my breast labours, like the bloated Sybil 
on her three- footed stool, and like her, too, la- 
bours with Nonsense. — Nonsense, suspicioua 
name ! Tutor, friend, and finger-post in the 
mystic mazes of law ; the cadaverous paths of 
physic ; and particularly in the sightless soar- 
ings of SCHOOL DIVINITY, who, leaving Common 
Sense confounded at his strength of pinion. 
Reason, delirious with eyeing his giddy flight; 
and Truth creeping back into the bottom of her 
well, cursing the hour that ever she offered 
her scorned alliance to the wizard power of 
Theologic Vision — raves abroad on all the winds. 
" On earth Discord ! a gloomy Heaven above, 
opening her jealous gates to the nineteenth 
thousandth part of the tithe of mankind ; and 
below, an inescapable and inexorable hell, ex- 
panding its leviathan jaws for the vast residue 
of mortals ! ! !" — doctrine ! comfcttbl*' aniJ 




healing to the vs&rj, wounded soul of man! 
fe sons and daughters of afiiiction, ye pauvres 
itiserables, to whom day brings no pleasure, 
and night yields no rest, be comforted! "'Tis 
but one to nineteen hundred thousand that your 
eitnaticn will mend in this world;" so, alas, 
£he experience of the poor and the needy too 
often affirms ; and 'tis nineteen hundred thou- 
sand to one, by the dogmas of ******* * 
that you will be damned eternally in the world 
to come"! 

But of all nonsense, religious nonsense is the 
most nonsensical; so enough, and more than 
enough of it. Only, by the by, will you or can 
you tell me, my dear Cunningham, why a sec- 
tarian turn of mind has always a tendency to 
narrow and iUiberalize the heart? They are 
orderly; they may be just; nay, I have known 
them merciful : but still your children of sanc- 
tity move among their fellow-creatures with a 
nostril-snuffing putrescence, and a foot-spurn- 
ing filth, in short, with a conceited dignity that 
your titled ******** or any other of 
your Scottish lordlings of seven centuries stand- 
ing, ('vsplay when they accidentally mix among 
the many-aproned sons of mechanical life. I 
remember, in my plough-boy days, I could not 
conceive it possible that a noble lord could be a 
fool, or a godly man could be a knave. — How 
ignorant are plough-boys ! — Nay, I have since 
discovered that a ffodly woman may be a ***** ! 
. — But hold — Here's t'ye again — this rum is 
generous Antigua, so a very unfit menstruum 
for scandal. 

iipropos, how do you like, I mean really like, 
the married life ? Ah, my friend ! matrimony 
is ^uite a different thing from what your love- 
sick youths and sighing girls take it to be ! But 
marriage, we are told, is appointed by. God, 
and I shall never quarrel with any of his insti- 
taii..fls, I am a husband of older standing than 
jf-.i ani shall give you my ideas of the conjugal 
Btate, {tn passant ; you know I am no Latinist, 
Is not conjugal derived from jugum, a yoke?) 
Well, then, the scale of good wifeship I divide 
into ten parts : — good-nature, four ; good sense, 
twj ; wit, one ; personal charms, viz. a sweet 
fa^e, eloquent eyes, fine limbs, graceful car- 
riage (I would add a fine waist too, but that is 
Bo soon spoilt you know), all these, one; as for 
Ihe other qualities belonging to, or attending 
»n, a wife, such as fortune, connexions, educa- 

jon Cl mean education extraordinary) family, 



blood, &c., divide the two remaining degree! 
among them as you please; only, remember 
that all these minor properties must be ex- 
pressed hj fractions, for there is not any on€ 
of them, in the aforesaid scale, entitled to the 
dignity of an integer. 

As for the rest of my fancies ' and reveriea— 
how I lately met with Miss Lesley Baillie, the 
most beautiful, elegant woman in the worlr'J— . 
how I accompanied her and her father's family 
fifteen miles on their journey, out of pure devo« 
tion, to admire the loveliness of the works of 
God, in such an unequalled display of them — 
how, in galloping home at night, I made a 
ballad on her, of which these two stanzas make 
a part — 

Thou, bonny Lesley, art a queen. 
Thy subjects we before thee ; 

Thou, bonny Lesley, art divine, 
The hearts o' men adore thee. 

The very deil he could na scathe 

Whatever wad belang thee ! 
He'd look into thy bonnie face 

And say, "I canna wrang thee." 

— behold all these things are written in the 
chronicles of my imaginations, and shall be read 
by thee, my dear friend, and by ^hy beloved 
spouse, my other dear friend, at a more con- 
venient season. 

Now, to thee, and to thy before-designed 
5oso?re-companion, be given the piecious things 
brought forth by the sun, and the precious 
things brought forth by the moon, and the 
benignest influences of the stars, and the living 
streams which flow from the fountains of life, 
and by the tree of life, for ever and ever ! 



TO MR. THOMSON. 

[George Thomson, of Edinburgh, principal clerk \i, o« 
trustees for the encouraging the manufactuTes of Scotland, 
projected a work, entitled, "A select Collection of Origi- 
nal Seotti!h Airs, for the Voice, to which are added intro 
ductory and concluding Symphonies and Accompaniment* 
for the Pianoforte and Violin, by Pieyel and Kozeluch, 
with select and characteristic Verses, by the most art- 
mired Scottish Poets." To Burns he applied for help in 
the verse : he could not find a. truer poet, nnr one to wno» 
such a work was more consrenial.l 



148 



C^ENERAL COIlIlESPOI'^D'j^JisbJS 



Dumfries, 16th Sept. 1792. 
Sir, 
I HAVE just this moment got your letter. As 
the request you make to me will positively add 
to my enjoyments in complying with it, I shall 
enter into your undertaking with all the small 
■ portion of abilities I have, strained to their ut- 
most exertion by the impvilse of enthusiasm. 
Only, don't hurry mo — " Deil tak the hindmost" 
is hy no means the cri de guerre of my muse. 
Will you, as I am inferior to none of you in en- 
thusiastic attachment to the poetry and music 
of old Caledonia, and, since you request it, have 
cheerfully promised my mite of assistance — will 
you let me have a list of your airs with the first 
line of the printed verses you intend for them, 
that I may have an opportunity of suggesting 
any alteration that may occur to me ? You 
know 'tis in the way of my trade ; still leaving 
you, gentlemen, the undoubted right of pub- 
lishers to approve or reject, at your pleasure, 
for your own publication. Apropos, if you are 
tor English verses, there is, on my part, an end 
of the matter. Whether in the simplicity of the 
Dallad, or the pathos of the song, I can only 
hope to please myself in being allowed at least 
a sprinkling of our native tongue. English 
verses, particularly the works of Scotsmen, 
that have merit, are certainly very eligible. 
"Tweedside!" "Ah! the poor shepherd's mourn- 
ful fate !" " Ah ! Chloris, could I now but sit," 
&c., you cannot mend;' but such insipid stuff 
as " To Fanny fair could I impart," &c., usually 
set to "The Mill, Mill, 0!" is a disgrace to 
the collections in which it has already appeared, 
and would doubly disgrace a, collection that 
will have the very superior merit of yours. But 
more of this in the further prosecution of the 
Dusiness, if I am called on for my strictures 
dnd amendments — I say amendments, for I will 
not alter except where I myself, at least, think 
that I amend. 

As to any remuneration, you may think my 
gangs either above or below price ; for they 
should absolutely be the one or the other. In 
the honest enthusiasm with which I embark in 
your undertaking, to talk of money, wages, fee, 
hire, Slc, would be downright prostitution of 
Boul ! a proof of each of the songs that I com- 



1 " Tweedside" is by Crawfurd ; " Ah, the poor shep- 
herd," &c.. by Hamilton, of Bangour ; " Ah ! Chloris," 
ki".., by Sir Charles Sedley — Burns has attributed it to 
^'T Peter Halket, of Pitferran. 



pose or Amend, I shall receive as a favour. Is 
the ritwlic phrase of the season, " Gude speed 
the xark!" 

• ■ I am, Sir, 

Your very humble servant, 

R. B. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

[One of the daughters of Mrs. Dunlop was msiried to 
.*I. Henri, a French gentleman, who died in 1790, &.t Lo .- 
don Castle, in Ayrshire. The widow went with hi»i 
orphan son to France, and lived for awhile amid the 
dingers of the revolution.] 

Dumfries, Mth September, 1792. 

I HAVE this moment, my dear Madam, yours 
of the twenty-third. All your other kind re- 
proaches, your news, &c., are out of ray head 
when I read and think on Mrs. H — 's situ- 
ation, Good God ! a heart- woundea hfclplesa 
yoimg woman — in a strange, foreign land, and 
that land convulsed with every horror that can 
harrow the human feebngs — sick — looking, long- 
ing for a comforter, but finding none — a mo- 
ther's feelings, too ; — but it is too much : he 
■ffho wounded (he only can) may He heal ! 
• e * • • « 

I wish th^e farmer great joy of his new ac- 
quisition to his family. * * * * * I cannot say 
that I give him joy of his life as a farmer. 'Tis, 
as a farmer paying a dear, unconscionable rent, 
a cursed life ! As to a laird farming his own 
property ; sowing his own corn in hope ; and 
reaping it, in spite of brittle weather, in glad- 
ness ; knowing that none can say unto him, 
' what dost thou?' — fattening his herds ; shear- 
ing his flocks ; rejoicing at Christmas ; and be- 
getting sons and daughters, until he be the 
veserated, gray-haired leader of a little tribe— 
'tis a heavenly life ! but devil take the life of 
reaping the fruits that another must eat. 

Well, your kind wishes will be gratified, as to 
seeing me when I make my Ayrshire visit. \ 

cannot leave Mrs. B , until her nine months' 

race is run, which may perhaps be in tnree or 
four weeks. She, too, seems determined to 
make me the patriarchal leader of a band. 
However, if Heaven will be so obliging as to 
let me have them in the proportion of three boys 
to one girl, I shall be so muoh the more pleased 
j I hope, if I am spared with them, to show a 



OF ROBERf BURNS. 



449 



Bet of boys that will do honour to my cares and 
name ; but I am not equal to the task of rearing 
girls. Besides, I am too poor; a girl should 
always have a fortune. Apropos, your little 
godson is thriving charmingly, but is a very 
devil. He, though two years younger, has com- 
pletely mastered his brother. Robert is indeed 
the mildest, gentlest creature I ever saw. He 
has a most surprising memory, and is quite the 
pride of his schoolmaster. 

You know how readily we get into prattle 
upon a subject dear to our heart: you can ex- 
»use it God bless vou and yours ! 

R. B. 



CCXXXVI. 

TO MRS. DUN LOP. 

[This letter has no date : it is supposed to have been 
written on the death of her daughter, Mrs. Henri, whose 
orphan son, deprived of the protection of all his relations, 
■was preserved bv the affecf-ionate kindness of Mademoi- 
Belle Sasette, one of the family domestics, and after the 
Revolution obtained the estate of his blood and name.] 

I HAD been from home, and did not receive 
your letter until my return the other day. What 
shall I say to comfort you, my much-valued, 
much-afflicted friend ! I can but grieve with 
you ; consolation I have none to offer, except 
that which religion holds out to the children of 
dfSiction — children of affliction! — how just the 
expression ! and like every other family they 
have matters among them which they hear, see, 
and feel in a serious, all-important manner, of 
which the world has not, nor cares to have, any 
idea. The world looks indifferently on, m akes 
the passing remark, and proceeds to the next 
novel occurrence. 

Alas, Madam ! who would wish for many 
/ears ? What is it but to drag existence until 
our joj^s gradually expire, and leave us in a night 
of misery : like the gloom which blots out the 
stars one by one, from the face of night, and 
leaves us, without a ray of comfort, in the howl- 
ing waste ! 

I am interrupted, and must leave off. Ton 
shall soon hear from me again. 

R B. 



1 Song OLXXVII 

Ht is something worse m the Edinburgh edition— 



ccxxxvn. 

TO MR. THOMSON. 

[Thomson had delivered judgment on some old Scottieli 
songs, but the poet murmured against George's decree. I 

Mt dear Sir, 

Let me tell you, that you arc too fastidious in 
your ideas of songs and ballads. I own thai 
yovir criticisms are just ; the songs you specify 
in your list have, all but one, the faults you re- 
mark in them : but who shall mend the matter? 
Who shall rise up and say, "Gr to ! I will make 
a better?" For instance, on reavling over "Th* 
Lea-rig," I immediately set about trying my 
hand on it, and, after all, I could make nothing 
more of it than the following, which. Heaven 
knows, is poor enough. 

When o'er the hill the eastern star, &c.* 

Tour observation as to the aptitude of Dr. 
Percy's ballad to the air, " Nannie, !" is just. 
It is, besides, perhaps, the most beautiful ballad 
in the English language. But let me remark t» 
you, that in the sentiment and style of our Scot 
tish airs, there is a pastoral simplicity, a some 
thing that one may call the Doric style and dia- 
lect of vocal music, to which a dash of our native 
tongue and manners is particularly, nay pecu- 
liarly, apposite. For this reason, and upon my 
honour, for this reason alone, I am of opinion 
(but, as I told you before, my opinion is yours, 
freely yours, to approve or reject, as you please) 
that my ballad of " Nannie, !" might perhaps 
do for one set of verses to the tune. Now don't 
let it enter into your head, that you are under 
any necessity of taking my verses. T have 
long ago made up my mind as to my own repu- 
tation in the business of authorship, and have 
nothing to be pleased or offended at, in jour 
adoption or rejection of my verses. Though 
you should reject one half of what I give you, 
I shall be pleased with your adopting the otbe? 
half, and shall continue to serve you with the 
same assiduity. 

In the printed copy of my "Nannie, 0!" the 
name of the river is horribly prosaic.^ I will 
alter it : 

Behind yon hills where Lugar flows, 

Girvan is the name of the river that suits the 
idea of the stanza best, but Lugar is the mosf 
agreeable modulation of syllables. 

" Behind yon hills where Stinchar flows "—Poems, f 



450 



GENERAL C 3REESP0NDENCE 



I will soon give you a great many more re- 
marks on this business ; but I have just now an 
opportunity of conveying you this scrawl, free 
of postage, an expense that it is ill able to pay : 
80, with my best compliments to honest Allan, 
Qude be wi' ye, &c. 

Fridn Night. 

Saturday Morning. 

43 I find I have still an hour to spare this 
m Mrning before my conveyance goes away, I will 
give you "Nannie, !" at length. 

Your remarks on "Ewe-bughts, Marion," are 
just ; still it has obtained a place among our 
more classical Scottish songs ; and what with 
many beauties in its composition, and more pre- 
judices in its favour, you will not find it easy 
to supplant it. 

In my very early years, when I was thinking 
of going to the West Indies, I took the follow- 
ing farewell of a dear girl. It is quite trifling, 
and has nothing of --the merits of "Ewe-bughts;" 
but it will fill up this page. You must know 
that all my earlier love-songs were the breath- 
ings of ardent passion, and though it might 
have been easy in after-times to have given them 
a polish, yet that polish, to me, whose they were, 
end who perhaps alone cared for them, would 
have defaced the legend of my heart, which was 
BO faithfully inscribed on them. Their uncouth 
Bimplicity was, as they say of wines, their race. 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary ? &c. ^ 

"Gala Water" and "Auld Rob Morris" I 
think, will most probably be the next subject 
of my musings. However, even on my verses, 
epeak out your criticisms with equal frankness. 
My wish is not to stand aloof, the uncomplying 
bigot of opiniQ-irete, but cordially to join issue 
with you in the furtherance of the work. 

R. B, 



CCXXXVIII. 

TO MR. THOMSON. 

(If'* poet loved to describe the influence whj -h the 
•iMrais of MiBS Lesley Baillie exercised over his imagi- 

November 8th, 1792. 
If you mean, my dear Sir, that all the songs 
m your collection shall be poetry of the first 
merit, I am afraid you will find more difficulty 

« Song CLXXTX. 2 Sor-g CLXXX . 

Son^ CLXXXI 



in the undertaking than you are aware of 
There is a peculiar rhythmus in many of oni 
airs, and a necessity of adapting syllables to the 
emphasis, or what I would call the feature-notea 
of the tune, that cramp the poet, and lay him 
under almost insuperable difficulties. For in- 
stance, in the air, " My wife's a wanton wee 
thing," if a few lines smooth and pretty cau be 
adapted to it, it is all you can expect. The fol. 
lowing were male extempore to it ; and though 
on further study I might give you something 
more profound, yet it might not suit the lighfc- 
horse gallop of the air so well as this random 
clink : — 

My wife's a winsome wee thing, Sic.^ 

1 have just been looking over the " Collier's 
bonny dochter ;" and if the following rhapsody, 
which I composed the other day, on a charming 
Ayrshire girl, Miss Lesley Baillie, as she passed 
through this place to England, will suit your 
taste better than the "Collier Lassie," fall on 
and welcome : — 

0, saw ye bonny Lesley? &c.3 

I have hitherto deferred the sublimer, more 
pathetic airs, until more leisure, as they will 
take, and deserve, a greater effort. However, 
they are all put into your hands, as clay into 
the hands of the potter, to make one vessel to 
honour, and another to dishonour. Farewell, &o 

R. B. 



CCXXXIX. 

TO MR. THOMSON. 

[The story of Mary Campbell's love is related m th« 
notes on the eongs which the poet wrote in her honour. 
Thomson says, in his answer, «' I have heard the sad 
Btory of your Mary ; you always seem inspired when yoB 
write of her."] 

lAth November, 1792. 
My dear Sib, 
I ACREE with you that the song, " Katherine 
Ogie,' is very poor stuff, and unworthy, alto- 
gether unworthy of so beautiful an air. I tried 
to mend it ; but the awkward sound, Ogie, re- 
curring so often in the rhyme, spoils every atr 
tempt at introducing sentiment into the piece. 
The foregoing song* jfleases myself; I think il 

4 Ye mnks and braes and streoraB around 
Tne castle o' MoitgOi-nery. 

Sons CLjgLXIl 



OF ROBEKT BURNS. 



45j 



n in my happiest manner : /ou will see at first 
glance that it suits the air. The subject of the 
Bong is one of the most interesting passages of 
my youthf\il days, and 1 own that I should be 
mu:h flattered to s£!e the verses set to an air 
which would ensure celebrity. ^Perhaps, after 
ftll, 'tis the still glowing prejudice of my heart 
liat throws a borrowed lustre over the merits 
}f the composition. 

I have partly taken your idea of " Auld Rob 
Morris." 1 have adopted the two first verses, 
nnd am going on with the song on a neAV plan, 
which promises pretty well. I take up one or 
another, just as the bee of the moment buzzes 
in my bonnet-lug ; and do you, sans ctremonie, 
make what use you choose of the productions. 
Adieu, &c. 

R. B. 



TO MR THOMSON. 

[The poet apprcvad of several emendations proposed 
by Thomson, whose wish was to make the words flow 
more readily with the music : he refused, however, to 
adopt otherfe, Arhere he thought too much of the sense was 
itacTificed.] 

Dumfries, 1st December, 1792. 
Your alterations of my "Nannie, 0!" are 
perfectly right. So are those of "My wife's a 
winsome wee thing." Your alteration of the 
Becond stanza is a positive improvement. Now, 
Boy dear Sir, with the freedom which character- 
izes our correspondence, I must not, cannot alter 
"Bonnie Lesley." You aie right; the word 
" Alexander" makes the line "a little uncouth, 
but I think the thought is pretty. Of Alexan- 
der, beyond all other heroes, it may be said, in 
the sublime language of Scripture, that " he 
went forth conquering and to conquer." 

For nature made her what she is, 
ini never made anither. (Such a person as 
she is.) 

This is, in my opinion, more poetical than 
"TSTe'er made sic anither." However, it is im- 
material: make it either way. "Caledonie," 
I agree with you, is not so good a word as could 
be wished, though it is sanctioned in three or 
four instances by Allan Ramsay ; but I cannot 
help it. In short, that species of stanza is the 
TtttBl difficult tha,t I have ever tried. 



TO MR. THOMSON. 

[Duncan Gray, which this letter containod, became t 
favourite as soon as it was published, and the same mxy 
be said of Auld Rob Morris ] 

4th December, 1792. 
The foregoing ["Auld Rob Morris," ani 
"Duncan Gray,'"] I submit, my dear Sir, tfi 
your better judgment. Acquit them or con- 
demn them, as seemeth good in your sight. 
" Duncan Gray" is that kind of light-horse gaL 
lop of an air, which precludes sentiment. The 
ludicrous is its ruling feature. 

R. B 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

[Burns often discourses with Mrs. Dunlop on poetty 
and poets : the dramas of Thomson, to which he alludas, 
are stiff, cold compositions ,] 

Dumfries, 6th December, 1792. 
I SHALL be in Ayrshire, I think, nest week; 
and, if at all possible, I shall certainly, my 
much-esteemed friend, have the pleasure of 
visiting at Dunlop-house. 

Alas, Madam ! how seldom do we meet in this 
world, that we have reason to congratulate our- 
selves on accessions of happiness ! I have not 
passed half the ordinary term of an old man's 
life, and yet I scarcely look over the obituary 
of a newspaper, that I do not see some names 
that I have known, ^nd which I, and other 
acquaintances, little thought to meet with there 
so soon. Every other instance of the mortality 
of our kind, makes us cast an anxious look into 
the dreadful abyss of uncertainty, and shudder 
with apprehension for our own fate. But of 
how diiFerent an importance are the lives of 
different individuals ? Nay, of what importanc* 
is one period of the same life, more than ano- 
ther ? A few years ago, I could have laid down 
in the dust, " careless of the voice of the morn- 
ing;" and now not a few, and these most help- 
less individuals, would, on losing me and my 
i exertions, lose both their "staff and shield." By 
j the way, these helpless* ones have lately got 

■ an addition ; Mrs. B having given me a 

' fine girl since I wrote you. There is a charm- 

I 1 Songs CLXXXIII an& CLXXXIV 



452 



GENERAL OORllESPONDENCE 



mg passage in Thomson's "Edward and Eleo- 
nora:" 

" The valiant in himself, what can he suffer? 
Or what need he reg-ard his single woes?" &c. 

As I am got in the way of quotations, I shall 
give you another frcm the same piece, pecu- 
liarly, alas ! too peculiarly appos'ite, my dear 
Madam, to your presBnt frame of mind : 
" Who so unworthy but may proudly deck him 
With his fair-weather x'irtue, that exults 
Giad o'er the summer main ! the tempest comes, 
The rough winds rage aloud ; wnen from the helm, 
This virtue siirinks, and in a corner lies 
■Lamenting — Heavens ! if privileged from trial, 
How cheap a tiling ware virtue ?" 
I do not remember to have heard you men- 
tion Thomson's dramas. I pick up favourite 
quotations, and store them in my mind as ready 
armour, offensive or defensive, amid the struggle 
of this turbulent existence. Of these is one, a 
very favourite qne, from his " Alfred :" 

" Attach thee firmly to the virtuous deeds 
And offices of life ; to life itself, 
With all its vain and transient joys, sit loose." 

Probably I have quoted some of these to you 
formerly, as indeed when I write from the heart, 
I am apt to be guilty of such repetitions. The 
compass of the heart, in the musical style of 
expression, is much more bounded than that of 
.he imagination ; so the notes of the former are 
extremely apt to run into one another ; but in 
return for the paucity of its compass, its few 
notes are much more sweet. I must still give 
you another quotation, which I am almost sure 
I have given you before, but I cannot resist the 
temptation. The subject is religion — speaking 
of its importance to mankind, the author says, 
" 'Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning bright." 

I see you are in for double postage, so I shall 
e'en scribble out t'other sheet. We, in this 
cotintry here, have many alarms of the reform- 
ing, or rather the republican spirit, of your 
pari of the kingdom. Indeed we are a good 
deal in commotion ourselves. For me, I am a 
placeman, you know; a very humble one in- 
deed, Heaven knows, but still so much as to gag 
mo. What my private sentiments are, you will 
find out without an interpreter. 

****** 

I have taken up the subject, and the other 
iaj, for a pretty actress's benefit night, I wrote 
»n address, which I will give on the other page, 
called " The rights of woman :" 

' While Europe's eye is fixed on mighty things." 



I shall have the honour of receiving your criti 
cisms in person at Dunlop. R. B. 



TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ., 

FINTRAT. ♦ 

[Graham stood by the bard in the hour of peril records 
in this letter : and the Board of Excise had the generoiitj 
to permit him to eat its " bitter bread" for the rsma.adei 
of his life.] 

December, 1792. 
Sir, 

I HAVE been surprised^ confounded, and dis- 
tracted by Mr. Mitchell, the collector, tilling 
me that he has received an order from youi 
Board to inquire into my political conduct, and 
blaming me as a person disaffected to govern- 
ment. 

Sir, you are a husband — and a father. — Yon 
know what you would feel, to see the much- 
loved wife of your bosom, and your helpless, 
prattling little ones, turned adrift into the world, 
degraded and disgraced from a situation in which 
they had been respectable and respected, and 
left almost without the necessary support of a 
miserable existence. Alas, Sir ! must I think 
that such, soon, will be my lot! and from the 
d-mned, dark insinuations of hellish, ground- 
less envy too ! I believe. Sir, I may aver it, and 
in the sight of Omniscience, that I would no*, 
tell a deliberate falsehood, no, not though even 
worse horrors, if worse can be, than those I 
have mentioned, hung over my head ; and I say, 
that the allegation, whatever villain has made 
it, is a lie ! To the Britsh constitution on Revo- 
lution principles, next after my God, I am most 
devoutly attached ; you, Sir, have been much 
and generously my friend. — Heaven knows hovt 
warmly I have felt the obligation, and how 
gratefully I have thanked you. — Fortune, Sir, 
has made you powerful, and me impotent ; haa 
given you patronage, and me dependence. — 1 
would not for my single self, call on your huma- 
nity ; were such my insular, unconnected situ- 
ation, I would despise the tear that now swells 
in my eye — I could brave misfortune, I could 
face ruin ; for at the worst, " Death's thousand 
doors stand open ;" but, good God ! the tender 
concerns that I have mentioned, the claims and 
ties that I see at this moment, and feel around 
me, how they unnerve courage, and wither r(«BO 



OF EGBERT BURNS. 



455 



fution ! To your patronage, as a man of some 
genius, you have allowed me a claim ; and your 
esteem, as au. hones^t man, I know is my due : 
to these, Sir, permit me to appeal ; by these 
may I adjure you to save me from that misery 
which threatens to overwhelm me, and which, 
with my latest breath I will say it, I have not 
deserved. R. B. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

[Burns wras ordered, he says, to mind his duties in the 
Excise, and to hold his tongue about politics — the latter 
■part of the injunction was hard to obey, for at that time 
politics were in every mouth .] 

Dumfries, olst December, 1792. 
Deak Madam, 

A HURRY of business, thrown in heaps by my 
iosence, has until now prevented my returning 
my grateful acknowledgments to the good family 
of Dunl'^ and you in particular, for that 
hospitable kindness which rendered the four 
days I spent under that genial roof, four of the 
pleasantest I ever enjoyed. — Alas, my dearest 
friend ! how few and ieeting are those things 
we call pleasures! on my road so Ayrshire, I 
epent a night with a friend whom I much 
valued ; a man whose days promised to be 
many ; and on Saturday last we laid him in the 
dust! 

Jan. 2, 1793. 

I HAVE just received yours of the 30th, and 
feel much for your situation. However, I heartily 
rejoicje in your prospect of recovery from that 
vile jaundice. As to myself, I am better, though 
not quite free of my complaint. — You must not 
ibiiik, as you seem to insinuate, that in my 
way of life I want exercise. Of that I have 
(nough ; but occasional hard drinking is the 
d«(vil to me Against this 1 liavei again and 
agaiii bent my resolution, and have greatly suc- 
ceeded. Taverns I have totally abandoned : it 
is the private parties in the family way, among 
the hard-drinking gentlemen of this country, 
that do me the mischief — but even this I have 
more than half given over. 

Mr. Corbet can be of little service to me at 
present; at. least I should be shy of applying., 
I cannot possibly be settled as a supervisor, for 
leveral years. I must wait the rotation of the 
ist. aul there are twenty names before mine. 



I might' indeed get a job of ofiBciating, where a 
settled supervisor was ill, or aged ; but that 
hauls me from my family, as I could not remove 
them on such an uncertainty. Besides, some 
envious, malicious devil, has raised a little demui 
on my political principles, and I wish to let tliat 
matter settle before I oifer myself toe much ia 
the eye of my supervisors. I have set, henc«" 
forth, a seal on my lips, as to these unlucky poli- 
tics; but to you I must breathe my sentiments. Ia 
this, as in everything else, I shall. show the un- 
disguised emotions of my soul. War I depre- 
cate : misery and ruin to thousands are in the 
blast that announces the destructive demon. 

R, B 



TO MR. THOMSON. 

[The songs to which the poet alludes were ' ' Poortttii 
Cauld," and " Galla Water."] 

Jan. 1793. 

Many returns of the season to you, my dear 
Sir. How comes on your publication ? — will 
these two foregoing [Songs clxxxv. and 
CLxxxvi.] be of any service to you ? I should 
like to know what songs you print to each tune, 
besides the verses to which it is set. In short, I 
would wish to give you my opinion on all the 
poetry you publish. You know it is my trade, 
and a man in the way of his trade may suggest 
useful hints that escape men of much superior 
parts and endowments in other things. 

If you meet with my dear and much-valued 
Cunningham, greet him, in my name, with the 
compliments of the season. 

Yours, &c., 

R. B, 



TO MR. THOMSON. 

[Thonrison explained more fully than at first fne i)'i:s of 
his publication, and stated ths(,t Dr. Beattie had prt .tjismi 
an essay on Scottish music, by way of an iitroductjont'j 
the work] ' 

26?;^ Jar.Mary, 1798. 
I APPROVE greatly, my dear Sir, of your plans 
Dr. Beattie's essay wiP, of itself, be a treasure. 
On my part I mean to draw up an appendix to 
the Doctor's essay, containing my stock of anec- 
dotes, &c., of our Scots songs. All the late M* 



454 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



Tytler's anecdotes I ha-^ by me, taken down in 
the course of my acquaintance with him, from 
his own mouth. I am such an enthusiast, that 
in the course of my several peregrinations 
through Scotland, I made a pilgrimage to the 
individual spot from which every song took its 
rise, "Lochaber" and the " Braes of Ballenden" 
excepted. Si. far as the locality, either from 
the title of the air, or the tenor of the song, 
eonid be ascertained, I have paid my devotions 
at the particular shrine of every Scots muse. 

I do not doubt but you might make a very 
valuable collection of Jacobite songs; but would 
it give no offence ? In the meantime, do not 
you think that some of them, particularly " The 
bow's tail to Geordie," as an air, with other 
words, nnght be well worth a place in your col- 
ection cf lively songs ? 

K it w' "(^ possible to p'^ocur'^ songs of merit, it 
would be proper to nave one set of Scots woras 
to every air, and that the set of words to which 
j the notes ought to be set. There is a nav'iete, 
a pastoral simplicity, in a slight intermixture 
of Scots words and phraseology, which is more 
in unison (at least to my taste, and, I will add, 
to every genuine Caledonian taste) with the 
simple pathos, or rustic sprightliness of our 
native music, than any English verses what- 
ever. 

The very name of Peter Pindar is an acquisi- 
tion to your work. His " Gregory" is beautiful. 
I have tried to give you a set of stanzas in Scots, 
on the same subject, which are at your service. 
Not that I intend to enter the lists with Peter 
— that would be presumption indeed. My song, 
though much inferior in poetic merit, has, I 
ihink, more of the ballad simplicity in it. 
[Hire follows " Lord Gregory." Song CLXXXYII. 

My most respectful compliments to the ho- 
rtourable gentleman who favoured me with a 
postscript in your last. He shall hear from me 
»a'; receive bis MSS. soon. 

Yours, 

R. B. 



CCXI^II. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

[Th': seal, with the coat-of-arms which the poet in- 
.«nted, is still in the family, and regarded as a relique] 

Sd Blareh, 1793. 
Since I wrote to you the last lugubrious s^eet, 
I Save not nad time to write you further. When 



I say that I had not time, that as usual means, 
that the three demons, indolence, business, an^ 
ennui, have so completely shared my hour! 
among them, as not to leave me a five minutes' 
fragment to take up a pen in. 

Thank heaven, I feel my spirits buoying up- 
wards with the renovating year. Now I shaU 
in good earnest take up Thomson's songs, j 
dare say he thinks I have used him unkindly, 
and I must own with too much appearance of 
truth. Apropos, do you know the much admired 
old Highland air called "The Sutor's Dochter?" 
It is a first-rate favourite of mine, and I have 
written what I reckon one of my best scags to 
it. I will send it to you as it was sung with 
great applause in some fashionable circles by 
Major Roberston, of Lude, who was here with 
Ms corps. 

*' * -x •" -'•- * 

There is one commission that i must trouble 
you with. I lately lost a valuable seal, a pre- 
sent from a departed friend which vexes me 
much. 

I have gotten one of your Highland pebbles, 
which I fancy would make a very decent one ; 
and I want to cut my armorial bearing on it ; 
will you be so obliging as inquire what ^vill be 
the expense of such a business ? I do not know 
that my name is matriculated, as the heralds 
call it, at all ; but I have invented arms for my- 
self, so you know I shall be chief of the name; 
and, by courtesy of Scotland, will likewise be 
entitled to supporters. These, however, I dc 
not intend having on my seal. I am a bit of a 
herald, and shall give you, secundum artem, my 
arms. On a field, azure, a holly-bush, seeded, 
proper, i'n base; a shepherd's pipe and iirook, 
saltier-wise, also proper in chief. On a wreath 
of the colours, a wood-lark perching on a sprig of 
bay-tree, proper, for crest. Two mottos ; round 
the top of the crest, Wood-notes wild: at the bot- 
tom of the shield* in the usual place. Better a 
wee bush than nae Meld. By the shepherd's pipe 
and crook I do not mean the nonsense of paint- 
ers of Arcadia, but a stock and horn, and a club, 
such as you see at the head of Allan Ramsay, 
in Allan's quarto edition of the Gentle Shepherd 
By the bye, do you know Allan ? He must be a 
man of very great genius — Why is he not more 
kjiown? — Has he no patrons ? or do "Po\erty's 
cold wind and crushing rain beat keen and 
heavy" on him? I once, and but (nee, got 8 
glance of that noble edition of the noblest pas- 
toral in the world ; and dear as it was, I meaa 



OF EGBERT BUENS 



45? 



dear as to my pocket, I would have bought it ; 
but I was told that it was printed and engraved 
for subscribers only. He is the only artist who 
has hit genuine pastoral costume. What, my 
iea_ Cunningham, is there in riches, that they 
barf 3W and harden the heart so ? I think, that 
rere I as rich as the sun, I should be as gene- 
rous as the day ; but as I have no reason to 
tmagme my soul a nobler one than any other 
fflan's, 1 must conclude that wealth imparts a 
pird-Ume quality to the possessor, at which the 
aian, m his native poverty, would have revolted. 
What has led me to this, is the idea of such 
merit as Mr. Allan possesses, and such riches 
as a nabob or government contractor possesses, 
and why they do not form a mutual league. 
Let wealth shelter and cherish unprotected 
merit, and the gratitude and celebrity of that 
merit, will richly repay it. 



I'O MR. THOMSON. 

(Burns in these careless words makes us acquainted 
With one of his sweetest songs.] 

20th March, 1793. 
Mt dear Sir, 

The song prefixed ["Mary Morison"'] is one 
of my juvenile works. I leave it in your hands. 
I do not think it very remarkable, either for its 
merits or demerits. It is impossible (at least I 
feel it so in my stinted powers) to be always 
original, entertaining, and witty. 

What is become of the list, &c., of your 
songs ? I shall be out of all temper with you, 
by and bye. I have always looked on myself as 
the prince of indolent correspondents, and valued 
myself accordingly ; and I will not, cannot, 
bear rivalship from you, nor anybody else. 
_ R. B. 

CCXLIX. 
TO MR. THOMSON. 

[For U8 " Wandering Willie" of this communication 
fbomson offered several corrections.] 

March, 1793.' 
Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 

Now tired with wandering, haud awa hame ; 
Some to my bosom, my ae only dearie, [same. 

And tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the 

' Song CLXXXVIII. 



Loud blew the cauld winter winds at our par* 
ing; 
It was na the blast brought the tear in mj 
e'e; 
Now welcome the simmer, and welcome mj 
Willie, 
The simmer to nature, my Willie to mo. 

Ye hurricanes, rest in the cave o' your slumbers . 

Oh how your wild horrors a lover alarms! 
Awaken, ye breezes ! blow gently, ye billows I 

And waft my dear laddie ance mair to nij 
arms. 

But if he's forgotten his faithfulest Nannie, 

still flow between us, thou wide, roarinn 

main ; 
May I never see it, may I never trow it. 

But, dying, believe that my WUlie's my ain ' 

1 leave it to you, my dear Sir, to determin« 
whether the above, or the old "Thro' the lang 
muir I have followed my Willie," be the best. 

R. B. 



CCL. 

TO MISS BENSON. 

[Miss Benson, when this letter was written, was on a 
visit to Arbi^land, the beautiful seat of Captain C 6-.k( 
she is now Mrs. Basil Montagu.] 

Dumfries, 2\st March, 17^3 
Madam, 

Among many things for which I envy those 
hale, long-lived old fellows before the flood, is 
this in particular, that when they met with any- 
body after their own heart, they had a charm- 
ing long prospect of many, many happy meet- 
ings with them in after-life. 

Now in this short, stormy, winter day of our 
fleeting existence, when you now and then in 
the Chapter of Accidents, meet an individual 
whose acquaintance is a real acquisition, theia 
are all the probabilities against yon, that you 
shall never meet with that valued character 
more. On the other hand, brief as this miser- 
able being is, it is none of the least of the mise 
ries belonging to it, that if there is any mis- 
creant whom you hate, or creature whom yoTi 
despise, the ill-run of the chances shall be sd 
against you, that in the overtakings, turnings, 
and jostlings of life, pop, at some unlucky cor- 
ner, eternally comes the wretch upon you, ani 



will not allow your indignation or contempt a 
moment's repose. As I am a sturdy believer in 
the powers of darkness, I take these to be the 
doings of that old author of mischief, the devil. 
It is well-known that he has some kind of short- 
hand way of taking down our thoughts, and I 
uittke no doubt he is perfectly acquainted with 
suy sentiments respecting Miss Benson : how 
jrnch X admired her abilities and valued her 
iiirort]f , and how very fortunate I thought myself 
lU her acquaintance. For this last reason, my 
dear Madam, I must entertain no hopes of the 
very great pleasure of meeting with you again. 
Miss Hamilton tells me that she is sending a 
packet to you, and I beg leave to send you the 
enclosed sonnet, though, to tell you the real 
(iruth, the sonnet is a mere pretence, that I may 
have the opportunity of declaring with how 
much respectful esteem I have the honour to 
be, &c. R. B. 



CCLI. 
TO PATRICK MILLER, ESQ., 

OF DALSWINTON. 

iThe time to which Burns alludes was the period of 
his occupation of EUisland.] 



Sir, 



Dumfries, April, 1793. 



Mt poems having just come out in another 
edition, will you do me the honour to accept of 
a copy ? A mark of my gratitude to you, as a 
gentleman to whose goodness I have been much 
indebted ; of my respect for you, as a patriot 
who, in a venal, sliding age, stands forth the 
champion of the liberties of my country ; and 
of my veneration for you, as a man, whose be- 
&evolence of heart does honour to human na- 
ture. 

There was a time. Sir, when I was your de- 
pendent: this language then would have been 
like the vile incense of flattery — I could not have 
tt8c;d it. Now that connexion is at an end, do 
ins the honour to accept of this honest tribute of 
respect from. Sir, 

Your much indebted humble servant, 

R. B. 



I Burns here calls himself the " Voice of Coila," in 
tmitalionof Ossian,who'lenominates himself the " Voice 
»f Coaa."— CruRiB. 



TO MR. THOMSOK. 

[This review of our S / Jitish lyrics is we'.l worth tut 
attention of all who ■« iXe, songs, read songs, or nni 
songs.] 

1th April, 179d. 

Thank you, my uear Sir, for your packet 
You cannot imagine how much this business of 
composing for your publication has added U 
my enjoyments. What with my early attach- 
ment to ballads, your book, &c., ballad-making 
is now as completely my hobby-horse as eve* 
fortification was Uncle Toby's; so I'll e'en canter 
it away till I come to the limit of my race — GoCi 
grant that I may take the right side of the win- 
ning post ! — and then cheerfully looking back 
on the honest folks with whom I have been 
happy, I shall say or sing, " Sae merry as we 
a' hae been !" and, r&ibing my last looks to the 
whole human race, the last words of the voice 
of "Coila"' shall c>e, ' flood night, and joy be 
wi' you a' !" So much for my last words: now 
for a few present xejaarks, as they have occurred 
at random, on looking over your list. 

The first lines of " The last time I came 
o'er the moor," and several other lines in it, 
are beautiful ; but, in my opinion— rpar don me, 
revered shade of Ramsay! — the song is un- 
worthy of the divine air. I shall try to make 
or mend. 

" For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove,"2 is a 
charming song; but "Logan burn and Logau 
braes" is sweetly susceptible of rural imagery; 
I'll try that likewise, and, if I succeed, the 
other song may class among the English ones. 
I remember the two last lines of a verse in 
some of the old songs of " Logan Water" (for I 
know a good many different ones) which I think 
pretty : — 

" Now my dear lad maun face his faes, 
Far, far frae me and Logan braes. "3 

" My Patie is a lover gay," is unequal. "His 
mind is never muddy," is a muddy' expression 
indeed. 

" Then I'll resign and marry Pate, 
And syne my cockernony — " 
This is surely far unworthy of Ramsay or yooi 
book. My song, " Rigs of barley," to the same 
tune, does not altogether please me ; but if ^ 
can mend it, and thrash a few loose sentiments 



2 By Thomson, not the musician, but the noet. 

3 This song is not old ; its author, the late John MayM 
long outlived Burns. 



OF ROBERT BURNS, 



45T 



DTit of it, T will submit it to your consideration. 
•' The lass £>' Patie's mill" is one of Ramsay's 
best songs ; but there is one loose sentiment in 
It, which my much-valued fiiena Mr. Erskine 
will take into his critical consideiation. In Sir 
John Sinclair's statistical volunitB, are two 
claims — one, I think from Aberdeenshire, and 
Ihe other from Ayrshire — for the hon^^ur of this 
song. The following anecdote, which I had 
from the present Sir William Cunnin^ijham of 
Robertland, who had it of the late JoLa, Earl 
of Loudon, I can, on such authorities, bolieve : 

Allan Ramsay was residing at Loudon-castle 
with the then Earl, father to Earl John; and 
one forenoon, riding or walking, out together, 
his lordship and Allan passed a sweet romantic 
spot on Irvine water, still called " Patie's mill," 
where a bonnie lass was " tedding hay, bare- 
headed on the green." My lord observed to 
Allan, that it would be a fine theme for a song. 
Ramsay took the hint, and, lingering behind, 
he composed the first sketch of it, which he pro- 
duced at dinner. 

" One day I heard Mary say,"' is a fine song; 
but, for consistency's sake, alter the name 
"AdonisT" Were there ever such banns pub- 
lished, as a purpose of marriage between Adonis 
and Mary ! I • a^ree with you that my song, 
" There's nought but care on every hand," is 
much superior to "Poortith cauld." The ori- 
ginal song, " The mill, mill, !"^ though ex- 
cellent, is, on account of delicacy, inadmissible; 
still I like the title, and think a Scottish song 
would suit the notes best ; and let your chosen 
Bong, which is very pretty, follow as an English 
set. " The Banks of the Dee" is, you know, 
literally "Langolee," to slow time. The song 
is well enough, but has some false imagery in 
it: for instance, 
" And sweetly the nightingale sang from the tree." 

In tbc f rst place, the nightingale sings in a 
loT^ bush, but never from a tree ; and in the 
l$cond place, there never was a nightingale 
seen or heard on the banks of the Dee, or on 
the banks of any other river in Scotland. Exotic 
rura? imagery is always comparatively flat.'' If 
I could hit on another stanza, equal to " The 
[tmall birds rejoice," &c., I do myself honestly 

1 By Crawfurd. 2 By Ramsay. 

3 The author, John Tait, a writer to the Signet and 
iCme time Judge of the police-court in Edinburgh, 
v*ented to this, and altered the line to, 

• And sweetly the wood-pigeon cooed from the tree " 



avow, that I think it a superior song.* "Jchn 
Anderson, my jo" — the song to this tune in 
Johnson's Museum, is my composition, and I 
think it not my worst :^ if it suit you, take it, 
and welcome. Your collection of sentimental 
and pathetic songs, is, in tny opinion, very com- 
plete ;* but not so your comic ones. Where are 
** TuUochgorum," "Lumps o' puddin," "Tibbie 
Fowler," and several others, which, in my hum- 
ble judgment, are well worthy of preservation ? 
There is also one sentimental song of mine in 
the Museum, which never was known out of 
the immediate neighbourhood, until I got it 
taken down from a country girl's singing. • It 
is called "Craigieburn wood," and, in the 
opinion of Mr. Clarke, is one of the sweetest 
Scottish songs. He is quite an enthusiast about 
it; and I would take his taste in Scottish music 
against the taste of most connoisseurs. 

You are quite right in inserting the last five 
in your list, though they are certainly Irish. 
"Shepherds, I have lost my love !" is to me a 
heavenly air — what would you think of a set of 
Scottish verses to it ? I have made one to it a 
good while ago, which I think * * *, but in its 
original state it is not quite a lady's song. I 
enclose an altered, not amended copy for you,^ 
if you choose to set the tune to it, and let the 
Irish verses follow. 

Mr. Erskine's songs are all pretty, but hia 
" Lone vale" "^ is divine. 

Yours, &c. 

R. B. 

Let me know just how you like these random 
hints. 



CCLIII. 

TO MR. THOMSON. 

[The letter to which this is in part an answer, Curiie 
says, contains many observations on Scottish songs, and 
on the manner of adapting the Avords to tie mr^sic, whick 
at Mr. Thomson's desire are suppressed.] 

April, 1793. 
I HAVE yours, my dear Sir, this raoment. I 
shall answer it and your former letter, in my 
desultory way of saying whatever comes upper 
most. 



''■ Song CXXXIX. « *ong LXXX. 6 Song CLXXVII 

? " How sweet this lone vale, and how soothing'to feelinit 

Yon nightingale's notes which it melody meet." 

The song has found it? w^y into spveral coMe<!tion« 



458 



GENERAL COEEESPONDENCE 



The business of many of our tunes wanting, 
at the beginning, what fiddlers call a starting- 
note, is often a rub to us poor rhyiters. 

" There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, 
That wander through the blooming heather,'' 

j:"i may alter to 

»'Braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, 
Ye wander," &c. 

My song, «' Here awa, there awa," as amended 
by Mr. Erskine, I entirely approve of, and re- 
turn you. 

Give me leave to criticise your taste in the 
only thing in which it is, in my opinion, repre- 
hensible. ■ You know I ought to know something 
of my own trade. Of pathos, sentiment, and 
point, you are a complete judge ; but there is 
n. quality more neceeaary than either m a song, 
and whicJi is tne very essence of a baliad — i 
mean simplicity : now, if I mistake not, this last 
feature you are a little apt to sacrifice to the 
foregoing. 

Ramsay, as every other poet, has not been 
always equally happy in his pieces ; still I can- 
not approve of taking such liberties with an 
author as Mr. Walker proposes doing with " The 
last time I came o'er the moor." Let a poet, 
if he choose, take up the idea of another, and 
work it into a piece of his own ; but to mangle 
the works of the poor bard, whose tuneful 
tongue is now mute for ever, in the dark and nar- 
row house — by Heaven, 'twould be sacrilege ! I 
grant that Mr. W.'s version is an improvement ; 
but I know Mr. W. well, and esteem him much ; 
let him mend the song, as the Highlander mend- 
ed his gun — he gave it a new stock, a new lock, 
and a new barrel. 

I do not, by this, object to leaving out impro- 
per stanzas, where that can be done without 
spoiling the whole. One stanza in "The lass 
©' Patie's mill" must be left out : the song will 
be nothing worse for it. I am not sure if we 
8»n take the same liberty with " Corn rigs are 
bonnie." Perhaps it might want the last stanza, 
and be the better for it. " Cauld kail in Aber- 
deen," you must leave with me yet awhile. I 
have vowed to have a song to that air, on the lady 
whom I attempted to celebrate in the verses, 
"Poortith cauld and restless love." At any 
rate, my other song, "Green grow tb^j rashes," 

1 Songs CXCII. and CXCIII 



will never suit. That song is current in Scot 
land under the old title, and to the merry old 
tune of that name, which, of course, would mal 
the progress of your song to celebrity. Youl 
book will be the standard of Scots songs for th« 
future : let this idea ever keep your jtidgmenl 
on the alarm. 

I send a song on a celebrated toast in thij 
country, to suit "Bonnie Dundee." I send 700 
also a ballad to the " Mill, mill, !"i 

"The last time I came o'er the moor," 1 
would fain attempt to make a Scots song for, 
and let Ramsay's be the English set. You shall 
hear from me soon. When you go to London 
on this business, can you come by Dumfries ? I 
have still several MS. Scots airs by me, which 
I have picked up, mostly from the singing of 
country lasses. They please me vastly ; but 
your learned lugs would perhaps be displeased 
with thu vei^s feature for which 1 iike tkem. 1 
call them simple ; you would pronounce them 
silly. Do you know a fine air called "Jackie 
Hume's Lament ?" I have a song of consider- 
able merit to that air. I'll enclose you both 
the song and tune, as I had them ready to send 
to Johnson's Museum.^ I send you likewise, to 
me, a beautiful little air, which I had taken 
down from viva voce.^ 

Adieu. 

B. B. 



CCLIV. 

TO MR. THOMSON. 

[Thomson, it would appear by his answer to this lettfli^ 
was at issue with Burns on the subject-matter of simpli- 
city : the former seems to have desired a sort of diplo- 
matic and varnished style : the latter felt that eleganct 
and simplicity were " sisters twin."] 

4^n7,.1793. 
Mt dear Sir, 
I HAD scarcely put my last letter into the post- 
office, when I took up the subject of " The las» 
time I came o'er the moor," and ere I slep* 
drew the outlines of the foregoing.* How I have 
succeeded, I leave on this, as on every other oc 
casion, to you to decide. I own my vanity is 
flattered, when you give my songs a place in 
your elegant and superb work ; but to be of 
service to the work is my first wish. As I haT« 

2 Song CXCIV. 3 Song CXCVIIl. 

4 Song CCXXXIV. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



iJi 



often told you, I do not in a single instance wish 
you, out of compliment to me, to insert any- 
thing of mine. One hint let me give you — 
whatever Mr. Pleyel does, let him not alter one 
iota of the original Scottish airs, I mean in the 
Bong department, but let our national music 
preservs its native features. They are, I own, 
frequently wild and irreducible to the more 
modoriL rules ; but on that very eccentricity, 
'')erhaf s, depends a great part of theij- effect. 

R. B. 



CCLV. 
rO JOHN FRANCIS ERSKINE, ESQ. 



[This remarkphle letter has been of late the subject of 
BOirf con peT -■ : M ' mi .er, ■.'lo h ppem ' ,hei ^o 
be in the Excise, is vehe'iient in defence of the "honoura- 
ble board," and is certan that Burns has misrepresented 
the conduct of his veiy generous masters. In answer to 
;his it has been urged fiat the word of the poet has in no 
other thmg been ques1:>oned : that in the last moments of 
his life, he solemnly wrote this letter into his memoran- 
dum-book, and that fie reproof of Mr. Corbet, is given by 
him either as a juo'ation from a paper or an exact recol- 
lection of the ivira's used: the expressions, "noi to 
thinV and be ' ttlent and obedient" are underlined.] 



SiK, 



Dumfries, 13th April, 1793. 



Degenerate as human nature is said to be, 
and in many instances, worthless and unprinci- 
pled it is, still there are bright examples to the 
contrary ; examples that even in the eyes of su- 
perior beings, must shed a lustre on the name 
of man. 

Such an example have I now before me, when 
you. Sir, came forward to patronize and befriend 
a distant, obscure stranger, merely because po- 
verty had made him helpless, and his British 
hardihood of mind had provoked the arbitrary 
wantonness of power. My much esteemed 
friend, Mr. Riddel of Glenriddel, has just read 
me a paragraph of a letter he had from you. 
Accej/t, Sir of the silent throb of gratitude ; 
for words would but mock the emotions of my 
Boul. 

You have been misinformed as to my final 
dismission from the Excise ; I am still in the 
service. — Indeed, but for the exertions of a gen- 
tleman who must be known to you, Mr. Graham 
ef Fintray, a gentleman who has ever been my 
warm and generous friend, I had, without so 
much as a hearing, or the slightest previous 



intimation, been turned adrift, with my helplesi 
family, to all the horrors of want. Had I had 
any other resource, probably I might h ii ve saved 
them the trouble of a dismission ; but the littla 
money I gained by my publication, is almost 
every guinea embarked, to save from ruin an 
only brother, who, though one of the worthiest, 
is by no means one of the most fortunate of 
men. 

In my defence to their accusations, I said, that 
whatever might be my sentiments of republics, 
ancient or modern, as to Britain, I abjured the 
idea ! — That a constitution; which, in its ori- 
ginal principles, experience had proved to be 
every way fitted for our happiness in society, it 
would be insanity to sacrifice to an untried vi- 
sionary theory: — that, in consideration of my 
being situated in a department, however humble, 
iTpmedHtelv in •♦-.he handr <^f ppic-^''>! ^n power. 
1 had forborne taking any active part, either 
personally, or as an author, in the present busi- 
ness of Refokm. But, that, where I must de- 
clare my sentiments, I would say there existed 
a system of corruption between the executive 
power and the representative part of the legis- 
lature, which boded no good to our glorious con- 
stitution; and which every patriotic Briton 
must wish to see amended. — Some such senti- 
ments as these, I stated in a letter to my gene- 
rous patron, Mr. Graham, which he laid before 
the Board at large ; where, it seems, my last 
remark gave great offence; and one of our 
supervisors-general, a Mr. Corbet, was in- 
structed to inquire on the spot, and to docu- 
ment me — " that my business was to act, not to 
think; and that whatever might be men or mea^ 
sures, it was for me to be silent and obedient." 

Mr. Corbet was likewise my steady friend ; 
so between Mr. Graham and him, I have been 
partly forgiven ; only I understand that all 
hopes of my getting officially forward, are 
blasted. 

Now, Sir, to the business in which I wculJ 
more immediately interest you. The partiality 
of my COUNTRYMEN has brought me forward aa 
a man of genius, and has given me a charactet 
to support. In the Poet I have avrwed manly 
and independent sentiments, which I trust will 
be found in the man. Reasons of no less weight 
than the support of a wife and family, have 
pointed out as the eligible, and, situated as I 
was, the only eligible line of life for me, my 
present occupation. Still my honest fame is mj 



160 



GENERAL COREESPOJS PENCE 



dearest concern ; and a thousand times have I 
trembled at the idea of those degrading epithets 
that malice or misrepresentation may afl&x to my 
name. I have often, in blasting anticipation, 
listened to some future hackney scribbler, with 
the heavy malice of savage stupidity, exulting 
in his hireling paragraphs — " Burns, notwith- 
standing the fanfaronade of independence to be 
found in his works, and after having been held 
forth to public view and to public estimation as 
a man of some genius, yet quite desitute of re- 
BOurces within himself to support his borrowed 
dignity, he dwindled into a paltry Exciseman, 
and slunk out the rest of his insignificant ex- 
istence in the meanest of pursuits, and among 
the vilest of mankind." 

In your illustrious hands, Sir, permit me to 
lodge my disavowal ond defiance of these slan- 
derous falsehoods. Buens was a poor man from 
birth, and an exciseman by necessity: but I 
will say it ! the sterling of his honest worth, no 
poverty could debase, and his independent 
British mind, oppression might bend, but could 
not subdue. Have not I, to me, a more precious 
stake in my country's welfare than the richest 
dukedom in it ? — I have a large family of chil- 
dren, and the prospect of many more. I have 
three sons, who, I see already, have brought 
into the world souls ill qualified to inhabit the 
bodies of slaves. — Can I look tamely on, and 
see any machination to wrest from them the 
birthright of my boys, — the little independent 
Britons, in whose veins runs my own blood? — 
No ! I will not ! should my heart's blood stream 
around my attempt to defend it ! 

Does any man tell me, that my full efforts 
ean be of no service ; and that it does not be- 
long to my humble station to meddle with the 
concern of a nation ? 

I can tell him, that it is on such individuals 
as I, that a nation has to rest, both for the 
hand of support, and the eye of intelligence. 
The uninformed mob may swell a nation'^ bulk ; 
and the titled, tinsel, courtly throng, may be its 
feathered ornament ; but the number of those 
who are elevated enough in life to reason and to 
reflect ; yet low enough to keep clear of the 
venal contagion of a court ! — these are a nation's 
strength. 

I know not how to apologize for the imperti- 
nent length of this epistle ; but one mall re- 
quest I must ask of you further — when you have 
honoured this ietter with a perusal, please to 



commit it to the flames. BtmNS, in whose oe 
half you have so generously interested yourself 
I have here in his native colours drawn as he is, 
but should any of the people in whose hands il 
the very bread he eats, get the least knowledg« 
of the picture, it would ruin the poor babs foi 
ever! 

My poems having just come out in anothej 

edition, I beg leave to present you with a copy, 

as a small mark of that high esteem and ardent 

gratitude, with which I have the honour to be, 

Sir, 

Your deeply indebted, 

And ever devoted humble servant, 
R. B. 



.CCLVI. 

TO ROBERT AINSLIE, ESQ. 

["Up tails a', by the light o' the moon," was the nr me 
of a Scottish air, to whieli the devil danced with the 
witches of Fife, on Magus Moor, as reported b)' a war- 
lock, in that credible work, "Satan's Invisible World 
discovered."] 

April 26, 1793. 

I AM d-mnably out of humour, my dear Ains 
lie, and that is the reason, why I take up the 
pen to you : 'tis the nearest way (probatum est) 
to recover my spirits again. 

I received your last, and was much enter- 
tained with it ; but I will not at this time, nor at 
any other time, answer it. — Answer a letter ? 1 
never could answer a letter in my life ! — I have 
written many a letter in return for letters I 
have received ; but then — they were original 
matter — spurt-away! zig here, zag there ;» as 
if the devil that, my Grannie (an old woman in- 
deed) often told me, rode on will-o'-wisp, or, in 
her more classic phrase, Spunkie, were looking 
over my elbow. — Happy thought that idea has 
engendered in my head ! Spunkie — thou shalt 
henceforth be my symbol signature, and tutelar^ 
genius! Like thee, hap-step-and-lowp, here- 
awa-there-awa, higglety-pigglety, pell-mell, 
hither-and-yon, ram-stam, happy-go-lucky, up- 
tails-a'-by-the-light-o'-the-moon, — has been, is, 
and shall be, my progress through the mosses 
ind moors of this vile, bleak, barren wilderness 
of a life of ours. 

Come then, my guardian spirit, like thee may 
I skip away, amusing myself by and at my own 
light : and if any opaqae-souled lubber of man. 
kind complain thf>t my elfine, lambent, glim 



OF KOBERT BURNS. 



46> 



merous wanderings have misled his stupid steps 
over precipi'jes, or into bogs, let the thickheaded 
blunderbuss recollect, that he is not Spunkie : 
— that 

" Sp¥NXIe's ■wmderings could not copied be : 
Amiil these perils none durst walk but he."— 
* * * * * 

1 have no doubt but scholarcraft may be 
tAught, as a Scotchman catches the itch, — by 
frictu'Q. How else can you account for it, that 
horn blockheads, by mere dint of handling books, 
grow so wise that even they themselves are 
equally convinced of and surprised at their own 
parts ? I once carried this philosophy to that 
degree that in a knot of country folks who had 
a library amongst them, and who, to the honour 
of theii good sense, made me factotum in the 
business; one of our members, a little, wise- 
looking, squat, upright, jabbering body of a 
tailor, I advised him, instead of turning over 
the leaves, to bind the book on his back. — .Jonnnie 
took the hint ; and as our meetings were evei-y 
fourth Saturday, and Pricklouse having a good 
Scots mile to walk in coming, and, of course, 
another in returning. Bodkin was sure to lay 
his hand on some heavy quarto, or ponderous 
folic, with, and under which, wrapt up in his 
gray plaid, he grew wise, as he grew weary, all 
the way home. He carried this so far, that an 
old musty Hebrew concordance, which we had 
in a present from a neighbouring priest, by mere 
dint of applying it, as doctors do a blistering 
plaster, between his shoulders. Stitch, in a dozen 
pilgrimages, acquired as much rational theology 
as the said priest had done by forty years pe- 
rusal of the pages. 

Tell me, and tell me truly, what you think of 
this theory. 

Yours, 

Spunkie. 



CCLVII. 

TO MISS KENNEDY. 

fMiss Keanedy was one of that numerous band of ladies 
leho patronized the poet in Edinburgh ; she was related 
It the Hamiltons of Mossgiel.] 

Madam, 

Permit me to present you with the enclosed 

iong as a small though grateful tribute for the 

honour of your acquaintance. I have, in these 

rarses, attempted some faint sketches of your 



portrait iu the unembellished simple manner oi 
descriptive truth. — Flattery, I leave to youl 
LOVERS, whose exaggerating fancies may mak« 
them imagine you still nearer perfectiou than 
you really are. 

Poets, Maclam, of all mankind, feel most for* 
cibly the powers of beauty; as, if they ari 
really poets of nature's making, their feelijigj 
must be finer, and their taste more delicate than 
most of the world. In the cheerful bloom of 
SPRING, or the pensive mildness of autumn ; t^« 
grandeur of sumjier, or the hoary majesty of 
WINTER, the poet feels a charm unknown to the 
rest of his species. Even the sight of a fine 
flower, or the company of a fine woman (by far 
the finest part of God's works below), have sen- 
sations for the poetic heart that the herd of 
man are strangers to. — On this last account. 
Madam, I am, as in many other things, indebt- 
ed to Mr. Hamilton's kindness in introducing 
me to you. Your lovers may view you with a 
wish, I look on you with pleasure ; their hearts, 
in your presence, may glow with desire, mine 
rises with admiration. 

That the arrows of misfortune, however they 
should, as incident to humanity, glance a slight 
wound, may never reach your heart — that the 
snares of villany may never beset you in the 
road of life — that innocence may hand you by 
the path of honour to the dwelling of peace, ia 
the sincere wish of him who has the honour t« 
be, &c. R. B, 



ccLvin. 

TO MR. THOMSON, 

[The name of the friend who fell a tlcrifice to thos 
changeable t.mes, has not been menti jned : it is be'ijevwi 
he was of the west country.] 

June, n93. 

"When I tell you, my dear Sir, that » friend 
of mine in whom I am much interested has fall- 
en a sacrifice to these accursed times, you will 
easily allow that it might unhinge me for doing 
any good among ballads. My own loss as to 
pecuniary matters is trifling ; but the total ruin 
of a much-loved friend is a loss indeed. Par- 
don my seeming inattention to your last com- 
mands. 

I cannot alter the disputed lines in the ' ' Millj 



462 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



Mill, !'" What you think a defect, I esteem 
us a positive beauty ; so you see tow doctors 
differ. I shall now, with as much alacrity as I 
can muster, go on with your commands. 

You know Frazer, the hautboy-player in 
Edinburgh — he is here, instructing a band of 
music for a fencible corps quartered in this 
county. Among many of his airs that please 
me, there is one, well known as a reel, by the 
name of "The Quaker's Wife;" and which, I 
remember, a grand-aunt of mine used to sing, 
by the name of "Liggeram Cosh, my bonnie 
wee lass." Mr. Frazer plays it slow, and with 
au expression that quite charms me. I became 
such an enthusiast about it, that I made a song 
for it, which I here subjoin, and enclose Fra- 
zer's set of the tune. If they hit your fancy, 
they are at your service ; if not, return me the 
tune, and I will put it in Johnson's Museum. I 
think the song is not in my worst manner. 

Blythe hae I been on yon hill.^ 

' I should wish to hear how this pleases you. 

R. B. 



TO MR. THOMSON. 

[AgairiSv the mighty oppressors of the earth the poet 
was ever ready to set the sharpest shafts of his wrath : 
the times in which he wrote were sadly out of sorts.] 

June 25th, 1793. 
Have you ever, my dear Sir, felt your bosom 
ready to burst with indignation, on reading of 
those mighty villains who divide kingdoms, de- 
solate provinces, and lay nations waste, out of 
the wantonness of ambition, or often from still 
more ignoble passions ? In a mood of this kind 
to-day I recollected the air of "Logan Water," 
and it occurred to me that its querulous melody 
probably had its origin from the plaintive indig- 
mtion of some swelling, suffering heart, fired 
ftt the tyrannic strides of some public destroyer, 
juid overwhelmed with private distress, the con- 
Bequence of a country's ruin. If I have done 

' •' The lines were the third and fourth : 

* Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless, 
And mony a widow mourning.' 
Isourjoet had maintained a long silence, and the first 
umber of Mr. Thomso* 's musical work was in the press, 
•his gentleman ventured, by Mr. Erskine's advice, to sub- 
(itute fq theai, in that publication. 



anything at all like justice to my feelings, tlw 
following song, composed in three-quarters of 
an hour's meditation in my elbow-chair, ougbl 
to have some merit: — 

Logan, sweetly didst thou glide.' 

Do you know the following beautiful lit(l« 
fragment, in Wotherspoon's collection of Scot! 



Air — " Sughie Grahc{m." 
"Oh gin my love were yon red rose. 
That grows upon the castle wa' ; 
And I mysel' a drap o' dew. 
Into her bonnie breast to fa' i 

" Oh there, beyond expression blest, 
I'd feast on beauty a' the night, 
Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest, 
Till fley'd awa by Phoebus light!" 

This thought is inexpressibly beautiful ; and 
quite, so far as I know, original. It is too short 
for a song, else I would forswear you altogether 
unless you gave it a place. I have often tried 
to eke a stanza to it, but jn vain. After ba- 
lancing mypelf for a musing five minutes, on the 
hind legs of my elbow-chair, I produced the fol- 
lowing. 

The verses are far inferior to the foregoing, I 
frankly confess : but if worthy of insertion at 
all, they might be first in place ; as every poet 
who knows anything of his trade," will husband, 
his best thoughts for a concluding stroke. 

Oh were my love yon lilac fair, 
Wi' purple blossoms to the spring; 

And I a bird to shelter there. 
When wearied on my little wing ! 

How I wad moiirn, when it was torn 
By autumn ivild and winter rude ! 

But I wad sing on wanton wing. 

When youthfu' May its bloom renewed* 
R. B. 



' And eyes again with pleasure beam'd 
That had been blear'd with mourning.' 
Though better suited to the music, these Imesareinferi* 
to the original."— CuRRiE. 

« Song CXV. 3 Song CXCVI. 

4 Better known as Herd's. Wotherspoon was one • 
the publishers. 
6 See Song CXCVII. 



OF KOBEKT BURNS. 



463 



COLX. 

TO MR. THOMSON. 

|TiiJ.:n«)n, in his reply to the preceding letter, laments 
Ih&t anythjnif should untune the feelings of the poet, and 
begi his acceptance of five pounds, as a small mark of 
«ii gratitude for his beautiful songs.] 

July 2d, 1793. 
My dear Sik, 
1 HAVE just finished the following ballad, and, 
M I do think it in my best style, I send it you. 
Mr. Clarke, who wrote down the air from Mrs. 
Burns's wood-note wild, is very fond of it, and 
has given it a «elebrity by teaching it to some 
young ladies of the first fashion here. If you; 
do not like the air enough to give it a place in 
yoiir collection, please return it. The song you 
may keep, as I remember it. 

There was a lass, and she was fair. ' 

I have some thoughts of inserting in your 
index, or in my notes, the names of the fair ones, 
the themes of my songs. I do not mean the 
name at full; but dashes or asterisms, so as 
ingenuity may find them out. 

The heroine of the foregoing is Miss M'Murdo, 
daughter to Mr. M'Murdo, of Drumlanrig, one 
of your subscribers. I have not painted her in 
the rank which she holds in life, but in the dress 
and character of a cottager. R. B. 



CCLXI. 

TO MR. THOMSON. 

[Burns in this letter speaks of the pecuniary present 
Which Thomson, sent him, in a lofty and angry mood : he 
who published poems by subscription might surely have 
accepted, without any impropriety, payment for his 
wngo.] 

July, 1793. 
I ASSURE you, my dear Sir, that you truly 
h'lrt me with your pecuniary parcel. It de- 
grades me in my own eyes.' However, to return 
it would savour of aifectation ; but, as to any 
OCbort triSSc of that debtor and creditor kind, I 
twea? by that HONOtrR which crowns the up- 
right statue of Robert Burns's Integrity — 
ea the least motion of it, I will indignantly spurn 
the bypast transaction, and from that moment 
Eommence entire stranger to you ! Burns's cha- 
»actei for generosity of sentiment and indepen- 



dence of mind, will, I trust, long outlive any 
of his wants which the cold unfeeling ore can 
supply ; at least, I will take care that such a 
character he shall deserve. 

Thank you for my copy of your publication. 
Never did my eyes behold in any musical work 
such elegance and correctness. Your preface, 
too, is admirably written, only j'our partialitj 
to me has made you say too much : however, it 
will bind me down to double every effort in ine 
future progress of the work. The following 
are a few remarks on the songs in the list yon 
sent me. 1 never copy what I write to you, so 
I may be often tautological, or perhaps contra- 
dictory. 

" Th^ Flowers o' the Forest," is charming aa 
a poem, and should be, and mus^t be, set to the 
notes ; but, though out pf your rule, the three 
stanzas beginning, 

" I've seen the smiling of fortune beguiling," 
are worthy of a place, were it but to immortal 
ize the author of them, who is an old lady of 
my acquaintance, and at this moment living in 
Edinburgh. She is a Mrs. Cockburn, I forget 
of what place, but from Roxburghshire. ^ What 
a charming apostrophe is 

" O fickle fortune, why this cruel sporting, 
Why thus perplex us, poor sons of a day ?" 

The old ballad, " I wish I were where Helea 
lies," is silly to contemptibility. My alteration 
of it, in Johnson's, is not -much better. Mr. 
Pinkerton, in his, what he calls, ancient ballada 
(many of them notorious, though beautiful 
enough, forgeries), has the best set. It is full 
of his own interpolations — but no matter. 

In my next I will suggest to your considera- 
tion a few songs which may have escaped your 
hurried notice. In the meantime allow me to 
congratulate you now, as a brother of the quill. 
You have committed your character and fame, 
which will now be tried, for ages to come, by 
the illustrious jury of the Sons and Dattoe. 
TERS OF Taste — all whom poesy can please of 
music charm. 

Being a bard of nature, I have some preten- 
sions to second sight ; and I am warranted bj 
the spirit to foretell and afSrm, that your great' 
grand-child will hold up your volumes, and say, 
with honest pride, " This so much admired Sft 
lection was the work of my ancestor 1" 

R. B. 



- .„(.ng OXCVIIl. 

• i«lii;s Rutherford, of Fernilee in Selkirkshire, by i 



riage Mrs, Patrick Cockburn, c '.)rraistor She died ii 
1794, at an advanced agu 



404 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



CCLXII. 

TO MR. THOMSON. 

[Stephen Clarke, whose name is at this strange note, 
was a musician and composer ; he was a clever man, and 
had a high opinion of his own powers.] 

August, 1793. 
My deab, Thomson, 

I HOLD the pen for our friend Clarke, who at 
present is studying the music of the spheres at 
my elbow. The Georgium Sidus he thinks is 
rather out of tune ; so, until he rectify that 
matter, he cannot stoop to terrestrial affairs. 

He sends you six of the rondeau subjects, and 
if more are wanted, he says you shall have 
t\em. 



jonfound your long stairs ! 



S. Clarke. 



TO MR. THOMSON. 

f" Phillis the Fair" endured much at the hands of both 
'Sums and Clarke. The young lady had reason to com- 
plain, when the poet volunteered to sing the imaginary 
love of that fantastic fiddler.] 

August, 1793. 

Your objection, my dear Sir, to the passages 
in my song of " Logan Water," is right in one 
instance ; but it is diflEicult to mend it : if I can, 
I will. The other passage you object to does 
not appear in the same light to me. 

I have tried my hand on " Robin Adair," and, 
you will probably think, with little success ; but 
it is such a cursed, cramp, out-of-the-way mea- 
sure, that I despair of doing anything better to 
it. 

. While larks with little wing. • 

So much for namby-pamby. I may, after all, 
try my hand on it in Scots verse. There I 
always find myself most at home. 

I hav8 just put the last hand to the song I 
meant far " Cauld kail in Aberdeen." If it suits 
you to insert it, I shall be pleased, as the hero- 
ine is a favourite of mine ; if not, I shall also 
be pleased ; because I wish, and will be glad, 
to see you act decidedly on the business. 'Tis 
a tribute as a man of taste, and as an editor, 
which you owe yourself. 

R. B. 



CCLXIV. 

TO MR. THOMSON. 

[The infusion of Highland aifB and north country sab 
jects into the music and songs of Scotland, has invigora- 
ted both : Burns, who had a fine ear as well as a fins 
taste, was familiar with all, either Highland or Low- 
land.] 

August, 1793. 
That crinkum-crankum tune, " Robin Adair,* 
has run so in my head, and I succeeded so ill in 
my last attempt, that I have ventured, in thia 
morning's walk, one essay more. You, my dear 
Sir, will remember an unfortunate part of our 
_ijWorthy friend Cunningham's story, which hap 
pened about three years ago. That struck'my 
fancy, and I endeavoured to do the idea justice 
as follows : 

Had I a cave on some wild distant shore.' 

By the way, I have met with a musical High 
lander in Breadalbane's Fencibles, which are 
quartered here, who assures me that he well 
remembers his mother singing Gaelic songs to 
both "Robin Adair," and '" Grammachree." 
They certainly have more of the Scotch than 
Irish taste in them. 

This man comes from the vicinity of Inv^r 
ness : so it could not be any intercourse with 
Ireland that could bring them ; except, what I 
shrewdly suspect to be the case, the wandering 
minstrels, harpers, and pipers, used to go fre 
quently errant through the wilds both of Scot 
land and Ireland, and so some favourite aira 
might be common to both. A case in point — 
they have lately, in Ireland, published an Irish 
air, as they say, called " Caun du delish." The 
fact is, in a publication of Corri's, a great while 
ago, you will find the same air, called a High- 
land one, with a Gaelic song set to it. Its 
name there, I think, is " Oran Gaoil," and a 
fine air it is. Do ask honest Allan or the Rev. 
Gaelic parson, about these matters. 

R. B. 



1 Song CXCIX. 



CCLXV. 

TO MR. THOMSON. 

[While Burns composed songs, Thornson got some t 
the happiest embodied by David Allan, the painter, whose 
illustrations of the Gentle Shepherd had been favourably 
received. But save when an old man was admitted to 

a Song CC 



OF EGBERT BURNS. 



465 



jie scene, his designs may be regarded as failures : his 
ifiaidens were coarse and his old wives rigwiddie 
eariins.] 

August, 1793. 
Mt dear Sir, 

♦' Let me in this ae night" I will reconsider. 
I am glad that you are pleased with my song, 
" Had I a cave," &c., as I liked it myself. 

I walked out yesterday evening with a volume 
of f he Museum in my hand, when turning up 
*' Allan Water," " What numbers shall the muse 
repeat," &c., as the words appeared to me rather 
unworthy of so fine an air, and recollecting that 
it is on your list, I sat and raved under the 
shade of an old thorn, till I wrote one to suit 
the measure. I may be wrong; but I think it 
not in my worst style. You must know, that in 
Ramsay's Tea-table, where the modern song 
first appeared, the ancient name of the tune, 
Allan says, is "Allan Water," or "My love 
Annie's very bonnie." This last has certainly 
been a lino of the original song ; so I took up 
the idea, pud, as you will see, have introduced 
the line in its place, which I presume it formerly 
occupied ; though I likewise give you a choosing 
Hne, if it should not hit the cut of your fancy : 

By Allan stream I chanced to rove.' 

Bravo ! say I ; it is a good song. Should you 
think so too (not else) you can set the music to 
it, and let the other follow as English verses. 

Autumn is my propitious season. I make 
more verses in it than all the year else. God 
bless vou! . E.. B. 



TO ME. THOMSON. 

[Phillis, or Philadelphia M'Mnrdo, in whose honour 
Burns composed the song beginning "Adown winding 
Nith I did wander," end several others, died September 
5th, 1825.] 

August, 1793. 
Ts "Whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad," 
one of your airs ? I admire it much ; and yes- 
terday I set the following verses to it. Urbani, 
whom I have met with here, begged them of 
me, as he admires ibe air much ; but as I under- 
stand that he looks with rather an evil eye on 
your work, I did not choose to comply. How- 
ever, if the song does not suit your taste I may 



possibly send it him. The set of the air which 
I had in my eye, is in Johnson's Museum. 

whistle, and I'll come to yon, my lad.^ 

Another favourite air of mine is, "The 
muckin' o' Geordie's byre." When sung slow, 
with expression, I have wished that it had had 
better poetry ; that I have endeavoured to supply 
as follows : 

Adown winding Nith I did wander.'' 

Mr. Clarke begs you to give Miss Phillia a 
corner in your book, as she is a particular flamo 
of his, and out of compliment to him I have 
made the song. She is a Miss Phillis M'Murdc, 
sister to " Bonnie Jeam" They are both pupils 
of his. You shall hear from me, the very first 
grist I get from my rhyming-mill. 

R. B 



30 



Song CCI 



« Song ecu. 



OCLXVII. 

• TO MR. THOMSON. 

[Burns was fond of expressive words : " G.oaming, the 
twilight," says Currie, " is a beautiful peptic word, 
which ought to be adopted in England." 1 nins and 
Scott have made the Scottish language popular ver the 
world.] 

August, 1793. 
That tune, " Cauld kail," is such a favountD 
of yours, that I once more roved out yesterday 
for a gloamin-shot at the muses ; when the muse 
that presides o'er the shores of Nith, or rather 
my old inspiring dearest nymph, Coila, whis- 
pered me the following. I have two reasons for 
thinking that it was my early, sweet simple in- 
spirer that was by my elbow, " smooth gliding 
without step," and pouring the song on my 
glowing fancy. In the first place, since I left 
Coila's native haunts not* a fragment of a poet 
has arisen to cheer her solitary musings, by 
catching inspiration from her, so I more than 
suspect that she has followed me hither, or, at 
least, makes me occasional visits ;■ secondly, the 
last stanza of this song I send you, is the very 
words that Ooila taught me many years ago, and 
which I set to an old Scots reel in Johnson'a 
Museum. 

Come, let me take thee to my breast.* 

If you think the above will suit your idea ol 



3 Song CCIII 



4 Song CCIV. 



i6G 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



your favourite air, I shall b^ highly pleased. 
•' The last time I came o'er the mooi*' I cannot 
meddle with, as to mending it ; and the musical 
world have been so long accustomed to Ramsay's 
words, that a different song, though positively 
superior, would not be so well received. I am 
not fond of choruses to songs, so I have not 
Ilia le one for the foregoing. 

R. B. 



TO MR. THOMSON. 

[" Cauld kail in Aberdeen, and castocksin Strabogie," 
mn words which have no connexion vi'ith the sentiment 
of the song which Burns wrote for the air.] 

August, 1793. 
Song. 
Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers.' 

So much for Davie. The chorus, you know, 
is to the low part of the tune. See Clarke's set 
of it in the Museum. 

N. B. In the Museum they have drawled out 

the tune to twelve lines of poetry, which is 

nonsense. Four lines of song, and four of 
chorus, is the way. 2 



TO MISS CRAIK 

[Miss Helen Craik, of Arbigland, had merit both as a 
poetess and novelist : her ballads may be compared with 
.hose of Hector M'Neil: her novels had a seasoning of 
,atire in them.]- 

X 

Dumfries, August, 1793. 
Madam, 

Some rather anlooked-for accidents have pre- 
vented my doing myself ths honour of a second 
ri&it to Arbi gland, as I was so hospitably in- 
flt«d„ and so positively meant to have done. — 
H^j^rever, I still hope to have that pleasure be- 
fore the busy months of harvest begin. 

I enclose you two of my late pieces, as some 
kind of return for the pleasure I have received 
in perusing a certain MS. volume of poems in 
the possession of Captain Riddel. To repay one 
with an old song, is a proverb, whose force, you, 
Madam, I know, will not allow. What is said 



Bonj dC\ 



2 See Sons- I.X VIl 



of illustrious descent is, I believe, equally trui 
of a talent for poetry, none ever despised it who 
had pretensions to it. "The fates and characters 
of the rhyming tribe often employ my though ta 
when I am disposed to be melancholy. There 
is not, among all the martyrologies that ever 
were penned, so rueful a narrative as the lives 
of the poets. — In the comparative view of 
wretches, the criterion is not what they are 
doomed to suffer, but how they are formed to 
bear. Take a being of our kind, give him a 
stronger imagination and a more delicate sensi- 
bility, which between them will ever engender 
a more ungovernable set of passions than are 
the usual lot of man ; implant in him an irre- 
sistible impulse to some idle vagary, such as 
arranging wild flowers in fantastical nosegays, 
tracing the grasshopper to his haunt by his 
chirping song, watching the frisks of the little 
minnows in the sunny pool, or hunting after the 
intrigues of butterflies — in short, send him 
adrift after some pursuit which shall eternally 
mislead him from the paths of lucre, and yet 
curse him with a keener relish than any man 
living for the pleasures that lucre can purchase ; 
lastly, fill up the measure of his woes by be- 
stowing on him a spurning sense of his own 
dignity, and you have created a wight nearly as 
miserable as a poet. To you. Madam, I need 
not recount the fairy pleasures the muse bestows 
to counterbalance this catalogue of evils. Be- 
witching poetry is like bewitching woman ; she 
has in all ages been accused of misleading man- 
kind from the councils of wisdom and the paths 
of prudence, involving them in difliculties, 
baiting them with poverty, branding them with 
infamy, and plunging them in the whirling vor- 
tex of ruin ; yet, where is the man but must 
own that all our happiness on earth is not worthy 
the name — that even the holy hermit's solitary 
prospect of paradisiacal bliss is but the glittei 
of a northern sun rising over a frozen region., 
compared with the many pleasures, the nama 
less raptures that we owe to the lively queea 
of the heart of man ( R. B, 



CCLXX. 
TO LADY GLENCAIRN. 

[Burns, as tlie concluding paragraph of this lettei 
proves, continued to the last years of his life to think o' 
the composition of a Scottish drama, wliicli Sir Waltet 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



46. 



Seatt laments he did nnt write, instend of pouring ojit 
multitudes of lyrics for Johnson and Thomson ] 

My Lady, 
The honour you have done your poor poet, in 
writing him so very obliging a letter, and the 
pleasure the enclosed beautiful verses have 
given hira, canie very seasonably to his aid, 
amii the cheerless gloom and sinking despond- 
enxcy jf diseased nerves and December weather. 
As to. forgetting the family of Glencairn, Heaven 
.6 my witness with what sincerity I could use 
'ihose old verses which please me more in their 
rude simplicity than the most elegant lines I 
ever saw. 

" If thee, Jerusalem, I forget, 
Skill part from m)- viorht hand. 

My tongue to my mouth's roof let cleave. 

If I do thee forget, 
Jerusalem, and thee above 

My chief joy do not set." — ■ 

When I am tempted to do anything improper, 
I dar« not, be,cause I look on myself as account- 
able *o your ladyship and family. Now and 
then, when I have the honour to be called to 
the tables of the great, if I happen to meet with 
any mortification from the stately stupidity of 
ijelf-suf&cient squires, or the luxurious insolence 
of upstart nabobs, I get above the creatures by 
calling to remembrance that I am patronized 
by the noble house of Glencairn ; and at gala- 
times, such as new-year's day, a christening, or 
the kirn-night, when my punch-bowl is brought 
from its dusty corner and filled up in honour of 
the occasion, I begin with, — The Countess of 
Glencairn! My good woman with the enthusiasm 
of a grateful heart, next cries. My Lord ! and 
Bo the toast goes on until I end with Lady Har- 
riets little angel! whose epithalamium I have 
pledged myself to write. 

When I received your ladyship's letter, I was 
just in the act of transcribing for you some verses 
I have lately composed ; and meant to have sent 
them my first leisure hour, and acquainted you 
ffith my late change of life. I mentioned to 
nay lord my fears concerning my farm. Those 
fears were indeed too true ; it is a bargain 
would have ruined me, but for the lucky circum- 
stance of my having an excise commission. 

People may talk as they please, of the igno- 
miny of the excise ; 50Z. a year will support my 
wife and children, and keep me independent of 
the world ; and I would much rather have it 
laid that my profession borrowed credit from 
too. than that I borrowed credit from my pro- 



fession. Another advantage I have in thii 
business, is the knowledge it gives me of th« 
various shades of human character, consequently 
assisting me vastly in my poetic pursuits. 1 
had the most ardent enthusiasm for the mus 88 
when nobody knew me, but myself, and that 
ardour is by no means cooled now that mj lorj 
Glencairn's goodness has introduced me to .il! 
the world. Not that I am in haste for the prtH 
I have no idea of publishing, else I certainly 
had consulted my noble generous patron ; bu< 
after acting the part of an honest man, and 
supporting my family, my whole wishes and 
views are directed to poetic pursuits. I, am 
aware that though I were to give performances 
to the world superior to my former works, still 
if they were of the same kind with tho^e, the 
comparative i;eception they would meet with 
would mortify me. I have turned my thoughts 
on the drama. I do not mean the stately buskin 
of the tragic muse. 

* * * * 

Does not your ladyship think that an Edin- 
burgh theatre would be more amused with affec- 
tation, folly, and whim of true Scottish growth, 
than manners which by far the greatest part 
of the audience can only know at second 
ha^? . 

I have the honour to be. 

Your ladyship's ever devoted 
And grateful humble servant, 
R V 



TO MR. THOMSON. 

[Peter Pindar, the name under which it was the p.ea 
sure of that bitter but vulgar satirist, Dr. Wolcot, to 
write, was a man of little lyrical talent. He pu-chasea 
a good annuity for the remainder of his life, by t'le Jv^py- 
right of his works, and survived his populam/ mtvay 
years.] 

Sept. 179-3. 

You may readily trust, my dear Sir, that any 
exertion in my power is heartily at your seiwice 
But one thing I must hint to you ; the very 
nam.e of Peter Pindar is of great service to your 
publication, so get a verse from him now and 
then; though I have no objection, as well as I 
can, to bear the burden of the business. 

You know that my pretensions to musical 
taste are merely a few of nature's instincts, 
untaught and untutored by art. For this rea- 
son, many musical compositions, particularlT 



108 



GENEKAL CORRESPONDENCE 



where much, of the merit lies in counterpoint, 
however they may transport and ravish the ears 
of your connoisseurs, affect my simple lug no 
otherwise than merely as melodious din. On 
the other hand, by way of amends, I am de- 
lighted with many little melodies, which the 
learned musician despises as silly and insipid. 
I do not know whether the old air " Hey tuttie 
taitie," may rank among this number ; but well 
I know that, with Frazer's haut-boy, it has 
often filled my eyes with tears. There is a 
tradition, which I have met with in many places 
in Scotland, that it was Robert Bruce's march 
at the battle of Bannockburn. This thought, 
in yesternight's evening walk, warmed me to a 
pitch of enthusiasm on the theme of liberty and 
independence, which I threw into a kind of 
Scottish ode, fitted to the air, that one might 
suppose to be the gallant Royal Scot's address 
to his heroic followers on the eventful mornipg. 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled.^ 

So may God ever defend the cause of truth 
and liberty, as he did that day ! Amen. 

P.S. I showed the air to Urbani, who was 
highly pleased with it, and begged me to make 
soft verses for it ; but I had no idea of giving 
myself any trouble on the subject, till the acci- 
dental recollection of that glorious struggle for 
freedom, associated with the glowing ideas of 
some other struggles of the same nature, not 
quite so ancient, roused my rhyming mania. 
Clarke's set of the tune, with his bass, you will 
find in tlie Museum, though I am afraid that 
the air is not what will entitle it to a' place in 
your elegant selection. R. B. 



TO MR. THOMSON. 

[This letter contains further proof of the love of Burns 
ixt tne ajrs of the HighLands.] 

Sept. 1793. 
I DABE say, my dear 'Sir, that you will begin 
to think my correspondence is persecution. No 
matter, I can't help it ; a ballad is my hobby- 
aorse, which, though otherwise a simple sort 
|if harmless idiotical beast enough, has yet this 
blessed headstrong property, that when once it 



CCVII. 



2 Song CCVIII. 



has fairly made off with a hapless wight, it get* 
so enamoured with the tinkle-gingle, tinkle^ 
gingle of its own bells, that it is sure to run 
poor pilgarlick, the bedlam jockey, quite be« 
yond any useful point or post in the common 
race of men. 

The following song I have composed foi? 
" Oran-gaoil," the Highland air that, you tell 
me in your last, you have resolved to give a 
place to in your book. I havt this moment 
finished the song, so you have it glowing from 
the mint. If it suit you, well ! — If not, 'tis also 
well ! 

Behold the hour, the boat arrive I 

R a 



TO MR.. THOMSON. 

[This is another of the sagacious letters on Scottish 
song, which poets and musicians would do well to read 
and consider.] 

Sept. 1793. 

I BAVE received your list, my dear Sir,, and 
here go my observations on it.^ 

"Down the burn, Davie." I have this mo- 
ment tried an alteration, leaving out the last 
half of the third stanza, and the first half of th« 
last stanza, thus : 

As down the burn they took their way, 

And thro' the flowery dale ; 
His cheek to hers he aft did lay, 

And love was aye the tale. 
With "Mary, when shall we rr*»irn, 

Sic pleasure to renew ?" 
Quoth Mary, " Love, I like the burn. 

And aye shall follow you."'' 

" Thro' the wood, laddie" — I am decidedly of 
opinion that both in this, and " There'll never 
be peace till Jamie comes hame," the second oi 
high part of the tune being a repetition of the 
first part an octave higher, is only for instru- 
mental music, and would be much better omit- 
ted in singing. 

" Cowden-knowes." Remember in your indea 
that the song in pure English to this tune, be- 
ginning, 

" When summer comes, the swains on Tweed," 



3 Mr. Thomson's list of songs for his publication. 
i This is an alteration of one of Crawfurd's Bonyo 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



4Ty8 



te the pre Juctiou of Crawfard. Robert was his 
Christian name.' 

" Laddifc, lie near me," must lie by me for 
gome time. I do not know the air ; and until I 
ftm complete master of a tune' ."n my own singing 
(such as it is), I can never compose for it. My 
way is : I consider the poetic sentiment corre- 
ipondent to my idea of the musical expression ; 
Ihen choose my theme ; begin one stanza : when 
that ia- composed, which is generally the most 
difficult part of the business, I walk out, sit 
down now and then, look out for objects of na- 
ture around me that are in unison and harmony 
with the cogitations of my fancy, and workings 
of my bosom ; humming evei-y now and then the 
uiv with the verses I have framed. When I feel my 
muse beginning to jade. I retire to the solitary 
fire-side of my study, and there commit my effu- 
sions to paper ; swinging at intervals on the 
bind-legs of my elbow-chair, by way of calling 
forth my own critical strictures as my pen goes 
on. Seriously, this, at home, is almost invari- 
ably my way. 

What cursed egotism ! 

" Gil Morice" I am for leaving out. It is a 
j)laguy len.th : the air itself is never sung ; and 
its place can well be supplied by one or two 
Bongs for fine airs that are not in your list — for 
instance " Craigieburn-wood" and " Roy's wife." 
The first, beside its intrinsic merit, has novelty, 
and the last has high merit as well as great 
celebrity. I have the original words of a song 
for the last air, in the handwriting of the lady 
who composed it ; and they are superior to any 
edition of the song which the public has yet 
Been. 

"Highland laddie." The old set will please 
a mere Scotch ear best ; and the new an Italian- 
ised one. There is a third, and what Oswald 
calls the old " Highland laddie," which pleases 
me more than either of them. It is sometimes 
jailed " Ginglin Johnnie ;" it being the air of an 
old humorous tawdry song of that name. You 
will find it in the Museum, "I hae been at 
Crcjkieden," &c. I would advise you, in the 
musical quan lary, to offer up your prayers to 
he muses for inspiring direction ; and in the 
vneantime, waiting for this direction^ bestow a 
[ibation to Bacchus ; and there is not a doubt 
but 3 ou -will hit on a judicious choice. Proba- 
)>im est. 



" Auld Sir Simon" I must beg you to leave 
out, and put in its place " The Quaker's wife." 

"Blythe hae I been on yon hi)l,"2 is one of 
the finest songs ever I made in my life, and, be- 
sides, is composed on a young lady, positively 
the most beautiful, lovely woman in the world 
As I purpose giving you the names and desig- 
nations of all my heroines, to appear in some 
future edition of your work, perhaps half i 
century hence, you must certainly include " The 
, bonniest lass in a' the warld," in your col 
lection. 

" Dainty Davie" I have heard sung nineteen 
thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine times, 
and always with the chorus to the low part of 
the tune ; and nothing has surprised me so 
much as your opinion on this subject. If it will 
not suit as I proposed^, we will lay two of the 
stanzas together, and then make the chorus fol- 
low, exactly as Lucky Nancy in the Museum. 

" Fee him, father :" I enclose you Frazer'p 
set of this tune when he plays it slow : in fact 
he makes it the language of despair. I shall 
here give you two stanzas, in that style, merely 
to try if it will be any improvement. Were it 
possible, in singing, to give it half the pathos 
which Frazer gives it in playing, it would make 
an admirably pathetic song. I do not giv« 
these verses for any merit they have. I com 
posed them at the time in which " Patie Allan's 
mither died — that was about the back o' mid- 
night ;" and by the lee-side of a bowl of punch, 
which had overset every mortal in company ex- 
cept the hautbois and the muse. 

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie.'* 

" Jockie and Jenny" I would discard, and In 
its place would put " There's nae luck about 
the house, "^ which has a very pleasant air, and 
which is positively the finest love-ballad in that 
style in the Scottish, or perhaps in any other 
language. " When she came ben she boblit," 
as an air is more beautiful than either, and i& 
the andante way would unite with a charminu 
sentimental ballad. 

" Saw ye my father ?" is one of my greatest 
favourites. The evening before last, I wandered 
out, and began a tender song, in what I think 
is its native style. I must premise that the old 
way, and the way to give most effect, is to have 
no starting note, as the fiddlers call it, but tc 



1 His Christian name was William. 
«S;ig CXCV 



3 Son^ CCIX. 

4 By WilliaDa Juhus Mickln 



470 



GENEKAL CORRESPONDENCE 



6arBt at once into the pathos. Every country 
gii-l sings " Saw ye my father ?" &c. 

My song is but just begun ; and I should like, 
before I proceed, to know your opinion of it. 
I have sprinkled it with the Scottish dialect, 
hat it may be easily turned into correct Eng- 
lish.' 

" Todlin hame." Urbani mentioned an idea 
of his, which has long been mine, that this air 
is highly susceptible of pathos : accordingly, 
you will soon hear him at your concert try it 
to a song of mine in the Museum, "Ye banks 
and braes o' bonnie Doon." One song more and 
I have done; "Auld lang syne." The air is 
but mediocre; but the following song, the old 
song of the olden times, and which has never 
been in print, nor even in manuscript, until I 
took it down from an old man's singing, is 
enough tn recommend any air. 2 

iNow, 1 suppose, I have tried your patience 
fairly. You must, "after all is over, have a 
number of ballads, properly so called. » " Gil 
Morice," " Tranent Muir," " Macpherson's fare- 
well," "Battle of Sherriff-muir," or, "We ran, 
and they ran," (I know the author of this charm- 
ing ballad, and his history,) "Hardiknute," 
" Barbara Allan" (I can furnish a finer set of 
this tune than any that has yet appeared ;) and 
besides do you know that I really have the old 
tune to which " The cherry and the slae" was 
sung, and which is mentioned as a well-known 
air in " Scotland's Complaint," a book published 
before poor Mary's days ?^ It was then called 
"The banks of Helicon;" an old poem which 
Pinkerton has brought to light. You will see 
all this in Tytler's history of Scottish music. 
The tune, to a learned ear, may have no great 
merit ; but it is a great curiosity. I have a 
good many original things of this kind. 

R. B. 



CCLXXIV. 

TO MR. THOMSON. 

IflufE* .st«ne(l too readily to the suggestion of Thom- 
son, to alter " Bruce's Address to his troops at Bannock- 
min :" whatever may be the merits of the air of " Louis 
Irordon," the sublime simplicity of the words was in- 

1 The song here alluded to is one which the poet after- 
wards sent in an entire form : — 

< Wliere are the joys I hae met in the morning." 
Song CCX. 



jured by the alteration: it is now sung as origiRall 
written, by a.l singers of taste.] 

September, 1793. 
I AM happy, my dear Sir, that my ode please! 
you so much. Your idea, " honour's bed," is, 
though a beautiful, f>. hackneyed idea; so, if 
you please, we will let the line stand as it is. 
I have altered the song as follows : — * 

N. B. I have borrowed the last stanza from 
the common stall edition of Wallace — 
" A fa se usui^er sinks in every foe, 
And liberty returns with evsry blow. 
A couplet \70rthy of Homer. Yesterday you 
had enough of my correspondence. The post 
goes,' and my head aches miserably. One 30m- 
fort! I suffer so much, just now, in this world, 
for last night's joviality, that I shall escape 
scot-free for it in the world to come. Amen. 

R. B. 



CCLXXV. 

TO MR. THOMSON. 

[The poet's good sense rose at last in :irms against the 
criticisms of the musician, and he refused to lessen the 
dignity of his war-ode by any more alterations.] 

- September, 1793. 

"Who shall decide when doctors disagree?" 
My ode pleases me so much that I cannot alter 
it. Your proposed alterations would, in my 
opinion, make it tame. I am exceedingly obliged 
to you for putting me on reconsidering it, as I 
think I have much improved it. Instead of 
"sodger! hero!" I will have it "Caledonian 
on wi' me!" 

I have scrutinized it over and over ; and to 
the world, some way or other, it shall go as it 
is. At the same time it will not in the least 
hurt me, should you leave it out altogether, and 
adhere to your first intention of adopting Logan'g 
verses. 

I have finished my song to "Saw ye my fa- 
ther ?" and in English, as you will see. That 
there is a syllable too much for the expression 
of the air, is true ; but, allow me to" say, that 
the mere dividing of a dotted crotchet into a 
crotchet and a quaver, is not a great matter ; 
however, in that I have no pretensions to cope 
in judgment' with you. Of the poetry I speak 



3 A curious and rare book, which Leyden afterwarf 
edited. 

4 Song CCVII. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



471 



Irith confiience; but the music is a business 
where I hint mj ideas with the utmost diffi- 
dence. 

The old verses have merit, though unequal, 
and are popular : my advice is to set the air to 
the old words, and let mine follow as English 
verses. Here they are : — 

^heit are the joys I have met in the morn- 
ing'' 

Alieu, IT J dear Sir ! the post goes, so I shall 
4«ifer some other remarks until more leisure. 



CCLXXVI. 

TO MR. THOMSON. 

f*"or " Fy ! let us a' to the bridal," and " Fy ! gie me 
m/ ;og£ir, S. :f," £3d " Thert nav uci ibo\ the 
house,"' Burns puts in a word of praise, from a feeling 
that Thomson's taste would induce him to exclude the 
first — one of ou- most original songB— from his collec- 
tion.] 

September, 1793. 

I HAVE been turning over some volumes of 
songs, to find verses whose measures would suit 
the airs for which you have allotted me to find 
English songs. 

For " Muirland Willie," you have, in Ram- 
eay's Tea-Table, an excellent song beginning, 
" Ah, why those tears in Nelly's eyes ?" As for 
"The Collier's Dochter," take the following old 
bacchanal : — 

" Deluded swain, the pleasure, &c."2 

The faulty line in Logan-Water, I mend 
thus: 

How can your flinty hearts enjoy 
The widow's tears, the orphan's cry ? 

The song otherwise will pass. As to " M'Gre- 
gcira Rua-Ruth," you will see a song of mine 
to it, with a set of the air superior to yours, in 
tb« Museum, vol. ii. p. 181. The song begins^ 

Raving winds around her blowing." 

Tour Irish airs are pretty, but they are rank 
Irish. If they were like the " Banks of Ban- 
na," for instance, though really Irish, yet in the 
Bcottish taste, you might adopt them. Since 
you are so fond of Irish music, what say you to 



twenty-five of them in an additional number ! 
We could easily find this quantity of charming 
airs ; I will take care that you shall not wani 
songs ; and I assure you that you would find \\ 
the most sialeable of the whole. If you do nal 
approve of " Roy's wife," for the music's sake,, 
we shall not insert it. " Deil tak the wars" 1 
a charming song; so is, "Saw ye my Peggy f 
"There's nae luck about the house" well d) 
serves a place. I cannot say that " O'er th 
hills and far awa" strikes me as equal to youj 
selection. " This is no my ain house," is a great 
favourite air of mine ; and if you will send mo 
your set of it, I will task my muse to her highest 
effort. What is your opinion of " I hae laid a 
herrin' in saut ?" I like it much. Your Jaco- 
bite airs are pretty, and there are many others 
of the same kind pretty ; but you have not room 
for them You cannot. I think, inser* "Fy! 
leto a' tu the oridai," tu any othtx woi^.iS thaa 
its own. 

What pleases me, as simple and naive, dis- 
gusts you as ludicrous and low. For this rea- 
son, "Fy ! gie me my coggie. Sirs," " Fy! let's 
a' to the bridal," with several others of that 
cast, are to me highly pleasing ; while, "Saw 
yie my father, or saw ye my mother ?" delights 
me with its descriptive simple pathos. Thus 
my song, "Ken ye what Meg o' the mill haa 
gotten ?" pleases myself so much, that I cannot 
try my hand at another song to the air, so I 
shall not attempt it. I know you will laugh at 
all this ; 3ut " ilka man wears his belt his ain 
gait." R. B 



1 »-»i¥ CCXI. 



2 Song CCXII. 



CCLXXVn. 

TO MR. THOMSON. 

[Of the Hon. Andrew CiisKine an account was conjnu- 
nicated in a letter to Burns by Thomson, which the wri- 
ter has withheld. He was a gentleman of talent, acd 
joint projector of Thomson's now celebrated work.] 

October, 1793 
YouK last letter, my dear Tiomson, wae 
indeed laden with heavy news. Alas, poor 
Erskine !* The recollection that he was a co- 
adjutator in your publication, has till now scared 
me from writing to you, or turning my thoughts 
on composing for you. 

4 « The honourable Andrew Erskine, whose melanchoij 
death Mr. Thomson had communicated in an exceU«'B 
Utter, which he has suppressed."— OrRRiB 



472 



aENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



■ I am pleased that you are reconciled to the 
iiir of the " Quaker's wife ;" though, by the bye, 
au old Highland gentleman, and a deep anti- 
quarian, tells me it is a Gaelic air, and known 
by the name of "Leigerm' choss." The follow- 
ing verses, I hope, will please you, as an English 
Bong t'j the air. 

Thine am I, my faithful fair : ' 
fcur objection to the English song I pro- 
fvosed for "John Anderson my jo," is certainly 
just. The following is by an old acquaintance 
of mine, and I think has merit. The song was 
never in print, which I think is so much in your 
favour. The more original good poetry your 
collection contains, it certainly has so much the 
more merit. 

SONG.— BY GAVIN TURNisULL.-' 

Oh, condescend,' dear charming maid. 

My wretched state to view ; 
A tender swain, to love betray'd, 

And sad despair, by you. 

While here, all melancholy. 

My passion I deplore, 
Yet, urg'd by stern, resistless fate, 

I love thee more and more. 

I heard of love, and with disdain 

The urchin's power denied. 
I laugh 'd at every lover's pain, 

And mock'd them when they sigh'd. 

But how ray state is altar'd ! ' 

Those happy daj's are o'er; 
For all thy unrelenting hate, 

I love thee more and more. 

Oh, yield, illustrious beauty, yield ! 

No longer let me mourn ; 
And though victorious in the field. 

Thy captive do not scorn. 

fjSt generous pity warm thee. 

My wonted peace restore ; 
And grateful I shall bless thee still. 

And love thee more and more. 

The following address of Turnbull's to the 
Niglitiugule will suit as an English song to the 
air "There was a lass, and she was fair." By 
the bye, Turnbull has a great many songs in 
MS., which I can command, if you like his 
wanner. Possibly, as he is an old friend of 
mine, I may be prejudiced in his favour; but I 
like some of his pieces very much. 

THE NIGHTINGALE. 

Thou sweetest minstrel of the grove. 
That ever tried the plaintive strain, 



Song CCXIII. 

Gavin Turnbull was the author of a now forgotten 



Awake thy tender tale of love, 
And soothe a poor foisaken swain 

For though ine muses deign to aid 
And teach him smoothly to complain, 

Yet Delia, charming, cruel maid. 
Is deaf to her forsaken swain. 

All day, with fashion's gaudy sons, 
In sport she wanders o'er the plain: 

Their tales approves, and still she shuna 
The notes of her forsaken swain. 

When evening shades obscure the sky, 
And bring the solemn hours again, 

Begin, sweet bird, thy melody, 
And soothe a poor forsaken swain. 

I shall just transcribe another of TurnbuU'iii^ 
which would go charmingly to " Lewie Gordon.' 

LAURA. 
Let me wander where I will. 
By shady wood, or wmding rill; 
Where the sweetest May-born flowers 
Paint the meadows, deck the bowers ; 
Where the linnet's early song 
Echoes sweet the woods among : 
Let me wander where I will, 
Laura haunts my fancy still. 

If at rosy dawn I choose 
To indulge the smiling muse ; 
If I court some cool retreat, 
To avoid the noontide heat ; 
If beneath the moon's pale ray, 
Thro' unfrequented wilds I stray ; 
Let me wander where I will, 
Laura haunts my fancy still. 



When at night the drowsy god 
Waves his sleep-compelling rod, 
And to fancy's wakeful eyes 
Bids celestial visions rise, 
While with boundless joy I rove 
Thro' the fairy land of love ; 
Let me wander where 1 will, 
Laura haunts my fancy still . 

The rest of your letter I shall answer at soBM 
otljer opportunity. R, B. 



CCLXXVIII. 
TO JOHN M'MURDO, ESQ., 

WITH A PARCEL.. 

[The collection of songs alluded to in this letter, ar* 
only known to the curious in loose loi t : they wera 

volume, published at Glasgow, m 1788, un. er t^e title « 
" Poetical Essays." 



OF ROBEKT BURNS. 



47^ 



rr^nted jy an obscure bookseller, but not before death had 
tecHred him from the indie^uation of Burns.] 



Sir, 



Dumfries, \_December, 1793.] 



'Tis said that we take the greatest liberties 
with our greatest friends, and I pay myself a 
ferj' high compliment in the manner in which I 
Am going to apply the remark. 1 have owed 
fou money longer than ever I owed it to any 
aaiL Here is Kerr's account, and here ase the 
8ix guineas ; and now 1 don't owe a shilling to 

man — or woman either. But for these d d 

dirty, dog's-ear'd little pages,' I had done my- 
self the honour to have waited on you long ago. 
Independent of the obligations your hospitality 
aas laid me under, the consciousness of your 
luperiority in the rank of man and gentleman, 
if itself was fully as much as I could ever make 
lead against ; but to owe you money too, was 
aore than I could face. 

I think I once mentioned something to you 
f a collection of Scots songs I have for some 
•ears been making : I send you a perusal of 
rhat I have got together. I could not conve- 
..iiently spare them above five or six days, and 
Jive or six glances of them will probably more 
than sufloKje you. When you are tired of them, 
please leave them with Mr. Clint, of the King's 
Arms. There is not another copy of the col- 
lection in the wo.'ld ; and I should be sorry that 
any unfortunate negligence should deprive me 
of what has cost mc a jocd deal of pains. 
I have u'e i ^wiu^ to be, &c. 

R. B. 



rO JOHN M'MURDO, ESQ., 

DRUMLANRIG. 

[These words, thrown anto the form of a note, ^'e 
«opied from a blank leaf of the poet's works, published in 
two volumes, email octavo, in 1793.] 

Dumfries, 1793. 
Will Mr. M'Murdo do me the favour to accept 
of these volumes , a trifling but sincere mark 
of the very high respect I bear for his worth as 
a maa, his manners as a gentleman, and his 
kindness as a friend. However inferior now, or 
afterwards, I may rank as a poet ; one honest 
irtue to which few peets can pietend, I trust 

*■ ^ottiah Bank notea. 



I shall ever claim as mine : — to no man, wnat 
ever his station in life, or his power to serv< 
me, have I ever paid a compliment at the 
expense of tkuth. 

The Authoe. 



TO CAPTAIN 



[This excellent letter, obtained from Stewari of Dai 
guise, is copied from my kind friend Chambers's collito- 
tion of Scottish songs.] 



Sir, 



Dumfries, bth December, 1798. 



Heated as I was with wine yesternight, I 
was perhaps rather seemingly imperuiient in 
my anxious wish to be honoured with your ac- 
quaintance. You will forgive it: it was the 
impulse of heart-felt respect. "He is the fa- 
ther of the Scottish county reform, and is a 
man who does honour to the business, at the 
same time that the business does honour to him," 
said my worthy friend Glenriddel to somebody 
by me who was talking of your coming to this 
county with your corps. "Then," I said, "1 
have a woman's longing to take him by the hand, 
and say to him, ' Sir, I honour you as a man 
to whom the interests of humanity are dear, and 
as a patriot to whom the rights of your country 
are sacred.' " 

In times like these, Sir, when our commoners 
are barely able by the glimmer of their own 
twilight understandings to scrawl a frank, and 
when lords are what gentlemen would be 
ashamed to be, to whom shall a sinking coun- 
try call for help? To the independent country 
I gentleman. To him who has too deep a stake 
1 in his country not to be in earnest for her wel- 
I fare , and who in the honest pride of man can 
I view with equal contempt the insolence of v^flice 
and the allurements of corruption. 

I mentioned to you a Scots ode or song I haa 
lately composed, and which I think has some 
merit. Allow me to enclose it. When I fall 
in with you at the theatre, I shall be glad to 
have your opinion of it. Accept of it. Sir, «*s 
a very humble but most sincere tribute of re- 
spect from a man, who, dear as he prizes poetiq 
fame, yet holds dearer an independent mind. 
I have the honour to be, 

B B 



474 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



TO MRS. RIDDEL, 

Who was about to bespeak a Play one evening at 
the Dumfries Theatre. 

[This clever lady, to whom Burns so happily applies 
the words of Thomson) died in the year 1820, at Hampton 
Court.] 

I AM thinking to send my " Address" to some 
periodical publication, but it has not yet got 
your sanction, so pray look over it. 

As to the Tuesday's play, let me beg of you, 
my dear madam, to give us, "The Wonder, a 
Woman keeps a Secret!" to 'vvhich please add, 
" The Spoilt Child " — ^you will highly oblige me 
by so doing. 

Ah, what an enviable creature you are ! 
There now, this cursed, gloomy, blue-devil day, 
you are going to a Darty of choice spirits — 
'• »o plcj the „.iape„ 
Of frolic fancy, and incessant form 
Those rapid pictures, assembled train 
Of fleet ideas, never join'd before, 
Where lively wit excites to gay surprise; 
Or folly-painting humour, grave himself. 
Calls laughter forth, deep-shaking every nerve." 
Thomson. 
But as you rejoice with them that do rejoice, 
do also remember to weep with them that weep, 
and pity your melancholy friend. 

R. B. 



CCLXXXII. 



TO A LADY. 

IN PAVOUK OF A PLATEK'S BENEFIT. 

[The name of the lady to whom this letter is addressed, 
bas not transpired.] 

Dumfries, 1794. 
Madam, 

You were so very good as to promise me to 
honour my friend with your presence on his 
benefit night. That night is fixed for Friday 
first: the play a most interesting one! "The 
Way to Keep Him." I have the pleasure to 
know Mr. G. well. His merit as an actor is 
generally acknowledged. He has genius and 
worth which would do honour to patronage : he 
is a poor and modest man ; claims which from 
their very silence have the more forcible power 
«n the generous heart. Alas, for pity! that 
from the indolence of those who have the good 
i,mngs of this life in their gift, too often does 
fcrazen-fronted importunity snatch that boon, 



the righful due of retiring, humble want! 01 
all the qualities we assign to the author au4 
director of nature, by far the most enviable is— < 
to be able " to wipe away all tears from all eyes. 
what insignificant, sordid wretches are they, 
however chance may have loaded them with 
Wealth, who go to their graves, to their magnifi- 
cent mausoleums, with hardly the consciousneal 
of having made one poor honest heart happy I 

But I crave your pardon, Madam ; I came to 
beg, not to preach. R. B. 



CCLXXXIII. 



TO THE EARL OF BUCHAM, 

With a Copy of Bruce's Address to his Troopi ai 
Bannocklurn. 

[This fantastic Earl of Buchan died a few years ago : 
when he was put into the family burial-ground, at Di-y- 
burgh, his head was laid the wrong way, which Sir 
Walter Scott said was little matter, as it had never been 
quite right in his lifetime.] 

Dumfries, 12th January, 1794. 
My Lord, 

Will your lordship allow me to present you 
with the enclosed little composition of mine, as 
a small tribute of gratitude for the acquaintance 
with which you have been pleased to honour me ? 
Independent of my enthusiasm as a Scotsman, 
I have rarely met with anything in history 
which interests my feelings as a man, equal with 
the story of Bannockburn. On the one hand, a 
cruel, but able usurper, leading on the finest 
army in Europe to extinguish the last spark of 
freedom among a greatly-daring and greatly-in- 
jured people ; on the other hand, the despe- 
rate relics of a gallant nation, devoting them- 
selves to rescue their bleeding country, or perish 
with her. 

Liberty ! thou art a prize truly and indeed 
invaluable ! for never canst thou be too dearly 
bought] 

If my little ode has the honour cf your loid- 
ship's approbation, it will gratify my highest am- 
bition. 

I have the honour to be, &c. 

R. B. 



OF EGBERT BURNS. 



4/9 



CCLXXXIV. 
TO* CAPTAIN MILLER, 

DjILSWINTON. 

jOaptiii. Miner, of Dalswinton, sat in the House of 
V mua :as {oT the Dumfries district of boroughs. Dal- 
r^^tOD >.as passed from the family to ray friend James 
WA. ?inp Leny, Esq.] 

Th-e following ode is on a subject -which I 
know j-ou by no meajis regard with indifference. 
Oh, Liberty, 
" Thou rtiak'st the gloomy face of nature gay, 
Giv'st beauty to the sun, and pleasure to the day." 
Addison. 
It does me so miich good to meet with a man 
whose honest bosom glows with the generous 
enthusiasm, the heroic daring of liberty, that I 
could not fo-bear sendipg j'^n. a '•nmpo.ejtioi if 
my own on ine suoject, whicii I really thins is 
in my best manner. 

I haye the honour to be. 

Dear Sir, &c. 

R. B. 



CCLXXXV. 

To MRS. RIDDEL. 

[The dragon guarding the Hesperian fruit, was simply 
t military officer, who, with the courtesy of those wnoee 
trade is arms, paid attention to the lady.] 

Dear Madam, 

I MEANT to have called on you yesternight, 
tut as I edged up to your box-door, the first 
object which greeted my view, was one of those 
lobster-coated puppies, sitting like another dra- 
gon, guarding the Hesperian fruit. On the con- 
ditions and capitulations you so obligingly offer, 
T shall certainly make my weather-beaten rustic 
piii.i a part of your box-furniture on Tuesday ; 
when we may arrange the business of the visit. 

Amoiig the profusion of idle compliments, 
which iii8id.ioTis craft, or unmeaning folly, in- 
eessantij oifer at your shrine — a shrine, how far 
exalted above such adoration — ^permit me, were 
it but for rarity's sake, to pay you the honest 
tribute of a warm heart and an independent 
mind ; and to assure you, that I am, thou most 
amiable and most accomplished of thy sex, with 
ihe most respectful esteem, and fervent regard, 
Vhiue, &o. R. B. 



CCLXXXVI. 

TO MRS. RIDDEL. 

rThe patient sons of order and prudence seem oftei 
t > have stirred the poet to such invectives as (his Jatt*. 
exhibits.] 

I WILL wait on you, my ever-valued friend, 
but whether in the morning I am not sor*. 
Sunday closes a period of our curst revenue bu- 
siness, and may probably keep me employed 
with my pen until noon. Fine employment for 
a poet's pen ! There is a species of the human 
genus that I call the gin-home class : what en- 
viable dogs they are ! Round, and round, and 
round they go, — Muudell's ox that drives his 
cotton-mill is their exact prototype — without 
an idea or wish beyond their circle ; fat, sleek, 
stupid, patient, quiet, and contented ; while 
her- ■'■. si''- al<-op;ethfi-^ N'^'^en]'-"'~ris>' a '' mn''* 
melange of fretfulness and melancholy ; not 
enough of the one to rouse me to passion, nor 
of the other to repose me in toi-por, my soul 
flouncing and fluttering round her tenement, like 
a wild finch, caught amid the horrors of winter, 
and newly thrust into a cage. Well, I am per- 
suaded that it was of me the Hebrew sage 
prophesied, when he foretold — "And behold, 
on whatsoever this man doth set his heart, it 
shall not prosper !" If my resentment is awaked, 
it is sure to be where it dare not squeak : and 
if ***** 

Pray that wisdom and bliss be more frequent 
visiters of fi. B. 



CCLXXXVII. 

TO MRS. RIDDEii. 

[The bard often offended and often appeased this whim' 
sicai but verj' clever lady.] 

I HAVE this moment got the song from Fyme, 
and I am sorry to see that he has spoilt it a 
good deal. It shall be a lesson to me how I 
lend him anything again. 

I have sent you- " Werter," truly happy to 
have any the smallest opportunity of obliging 
you. 

'Tis true, Madam, I saw you once since I was 
at Woodlea ; and that once froze the very life- 
blood of my heart. Your reception of me was 
such, that a wretch meeting the eye of his judge, 
about to pronounce sentence ;f death on him 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



lould only have envied my feelings and situa- 
tion. But I hate the theme, and never more 
■shall write or speak on it. 

One thing I shall proudly say, that I can pay 
Mrs- R. a higher tribute of esteem, and. appre- 
ciate her amiable worth more truly, than any 
man whofia I have seen approach her. 

R. B. 



CCLXXXVIII. 

TO MRS. RIDDEL. 

[Burns often complained in company, and sometimes 
ji hiB letters, of the caprice of Mrs. Riddel.] 

I HAVE often told you, my dear friend, that 
you had a spice of caprice in your composition, 
and you have as often disavowed it ; even per- 
haps while your opinions were, at the moment, 
irrefragably proving it. Could anything estrange 
me from a friend such as you? — No ! To-morrow 
I shall have the honour of waiting on you. 

Farewell, thou first of friends, and most 
accomplished of women ; even with all thy little 
caprices ! R. B. 



COLXXXIX. 

TO MRS. RIDDEL. 

[The offended lady was soothed by this submissive let- 
tet, and the bard was re-established in her good graces.] 

Madam, 

1 RETURN your common-place book. I have 
perused it with much pleasure, and would have 
continued my criticisms, but as it seems the 
critic has forfeited your esteem, his strictures 
must lose their value. 

If it is true that " offences come only from 
the heart," before you I am guiltless. To ad- 
mire, esteem, and prize you as the most accom- 
plished of women, and the first of friends — if 
these are crimes, I am the most oflFending thing 
ftlivj. 

In a face where I used to meet the kind 
eomplacency of friendly confidence, now to find 
cold neglect, and contemptuous scorn — is a 
wrench that my heart can ill bear. It is, how- 
ever, some kind of miserable good luck, and 
while de haut-en-bas rigour may depress an 
Unoffending wretch to the ground, it has a ten- 
dency to rouse a stubborn something in his 
•osoiB which, though it cannot heal the wounds 



of his soul, is at least an opiate to blunt theil 
poignancy. 

With the profoundest respect for your abili- 
ties ; the most sincere esteem and ardent regard 
for your gentle heart and amiable manners ; 
and the most fervent wish and prayer for your 
welfare, peace, and bliss, I have the honom 
to be, 

Madam, 
Your most devoted humble servant, 

R. B. 



ccxc, 

TO JOHN SYME, ESQ. 

[John Syme, of the starap-office, was the companion ai 
well as comrade in arms, of Burns: he was a well-in- 
formed gentleman, loved witty company, and sinned in 
rhyme now and then : his epigrams were often happy.] 

You know that among other high dignities, 
you have the honour to be my supreme court 
of critical judicature, from which there is no 
appeal. I enclose you a" song which I composed 
since I saw you, and I am going to give you 
the history of it. Do you know that among 
much that I admire in the characters and man- 
ners of those great folks whom I have now the 
honour to call my acquaintances, the Oswald 
family, there is nothing charms me more than 
Mr. Oswald's uuconcealable attachment to that 
incomparable woman. Did you ever, my dear 
Syme, meet with a man who owed more to the 
Divine Giver of all good things than Mr. 0. ? 
A fine fortune ; a pleasing exterior ; self-evident 
amiable dispositions, and an ingenuous upright 
mind, and that informed, too, much beyond the 
usual run of young fellows of his rank and for- 
tune : and to all this, such a woman ! — but of 
her I shall say nothing at all, in despair of 
saying anything adequate : in my song I have 
endeavoured to do justice to what would be 
his feelings, on seeing, in the scene I hav® 
drawn,' the habitation of his Lucy. As I am a 
good deal pleased with my performance, 1, in 
my first fervour, thought of sending it to Mrs. 
Oswald, but on second thoughts, perhaps what 
I offer as the honest incense of genuine respect, 
might, from the well-known character of poverty 
and poetry, b« construed into some modification 
or other of that servility which my saul abhors. 

11. V. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



477 



TO MISS . 

(^arn«, on other occasions than this, recalled both hie 
otters ana verses : it is to be regretted that he did not 
•csil more of both.] t 

Dumfries, 1794. 
Madam, 

NoTHiNO short of a kind of absolute necessity 
cftukl have made me trouble you -with this let- 
ter. Except my ardent and just esteem for 
your sense, taste, and worth, every sentiment 
arising in my breast, as I put pen to paper to 
you, is painful. The scenes I have passed with 
the ^riend of my soul and his amiable con- 
nexions ! the wrench at my heart to think that 
he is gone, for ever"* gone from me, never more 
to meet in the wanderings of a weary world ! 
and the cutting, reflection of all, that I had 
most unfortunately, though most undeservedly, 
lost the confidence of that soul of worth, ere it 
took its flight ! 

These, Madam, are sensations of no ordinary 
anguish. — However, your also may be offended 
with some imputed improprieties of mine ; sen- 
sibility you know I possess, and sincerity none 
will deny me. 

To oppose those preju-iices which have been 
raised against me, is i^'A the business of this 
letter. Indeed it is a vear'^are I know not how 
to wage. The powers of positive vice I can 
\n some degree calculate, and against direct 
malevolence I can be on my guard ; but who 
can estimate the fatuity of giddy caprice, or 
ward oflf the unthinking mischief of precipitate 
folly ? 

I have a favour to request of you. Madam, 

and of your sister Mrs. , through your 

means. You know that, at the wish of my late 
friend, I made a collection of all my trifles in 
verse which I had ever written. They are many 
of .hen. local, some of them puerile and silly, 
iD 1 &1I of them unfit for the public eye. As I 
tave 9ome little fame at stake, a fame that I 
trust may live when the hate of those who 
''waliih for my halting," and the contumelious 
Biifr?r of those whom accident has made my su- 
peri<5rSj will, with themselves, be gone to the 
region3 of oblivion ; I am uneasy now for the 

fate of those manuscripts — Will Mrs. have 

the goodness to destroy them, or return them 
to nie ? As a pie Ige of ft-iendship they were be- 
llowed ; and that circumstance indeed was all 
Iteir merit. Most unhappily for me, that merit 



they no longer possess ; and I hope that Mrs 

's goodness, which I well know, and evel 

will revere, will not refuse this favour t*. a 
man whom she once held in some degree •>' 
estimation. 

With the sircerest esteem, 

I have the honour to be, 

Mad&Ti, %o. 
K B 



TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

[The religious feeling of Burns was sometimes blunted 
but at times it burst out, as in this letter, with e oquend 
and fervour, mingled with fear.] 

25?A February, 1794 

Canst thou minister to a mind diseased* 
Canst thou speak peace and rest to a soul tost 
on a sea of troubles, without one friendly stal 
to guide her course, and dreading that the next 
surge may overwhelm her ? Canst thou give to 
a frame tremblingly alive as the tortures of 
suspense, the stability and hardihood of the 
rock that braves the blast? If thou canst 
not do the least of these, why wouldst thou 
disturb me in my miseries, with thy inquiries 
after me ? 

****** 

For these two months I have not been able 
to lift a pen. My constitution and frame were, 
ah origine, blasted with a deep incurable taint 
of hypochondria, which poisons my existence 
Of late a number of domestic vexations, and 
some pecuniary share in the ruin of these cursed 
times ; losses which, though trifling, were yet 
what I could ill bear, have so irritated me. that 
my feelings at times could only be envied by a 
reprobate spirit listening to the sentence that 
dooms it to perdition. 

Are you deep in the language of consoli-tioii ? 
I have exhausted in reflection every topic of 
comfort. A heart at ease wcfuld have been 
charmed with my sentiments and reasonings; 
but as to myself I was like Judas Iscarioi 
preaching the gospel ; he might melt and mould 
the hearts of those around him, but his own 
kept its native incorrigibility. 

Still there are two great pillars that bear us 
up, amid the wreck of misfortune and misery. 
The ONE is composed of the different modifica 
tions of a certain noble stubborn something '\n 
man, known by the names of courage, fortitude. 



GENEKAL CORRESPONDENCE 



magnanimity. The other is made up of those 
feelings and sentiments, which, however the 
sceptic may deny 'them, or the enthusiast disfi- 
gure them, are yet, I am convinced, original 
and component parts of the human soul ; those 
tenses of the mind, if I may be allowed the ex- 
pression, which ^onnect us with, and link us to, 
<faose awful, otscure realities — an all-powerful, 
fend equally beneficent God ; and a world to 
some, beyond death and the grave. The first 
gives the nerve of combat, while a ray of hope 
beams on the field : the last pours the balm of 
comfort into the wounds which time can never 
sure. 

I do not remember, my dear Cunningham, 
that you and I ever talked on the subject of re- 
ligion at all. I know some who laugh at it, as 
the trick of the crafty few, to lead the undis- 
cerning many ; or at most as an uncertain ob- 
scurity, which mankind can never know any- 
thing of, and with which they are fools if they 
give themselves much to do. Nor would I 
quarrel with a man for his irreligion, any more 
than I would for his want of a musical ear. I 
would regret that he was shut out from what, 
to me and to others, were such superlative 
sources of enjoyment. It is in this point of 
view, and for this reaeon, that I will deeply 
imbue the mind of every child of mine with re- 
ligion. If my son shov/ld happen to be a man 
of feeling, sentiment, and taste, I shall thus 
add largely to his enjoyments. Let me flatter 
myself that this sweet little fellow, who is just 
now running about my desk, will be a man of 
a melting, ardent, glowing heart ; and an ima- 
gination, delighted with the painter, and rapt 
with the poet. Let me figure him wandering 
out in a sweet evening, to inhale the balmy 
gales, and enjoy the growing luxuriance of 
spring ; himself the while in the blooming youth 
of life. He looks abroad on all nature, and 
through nature up to nature's God. His soul, 
by swift delighting degrees, is rapt above this 
uablunary sphere, until he can be silent no 
longer, and bursts out into the glorious enthusi- 
ftom of Thomson, 

'■ These, as they change, Almighty Father, these 
Are but the varied God. — The rolling year 
Is full of thee." 

And so on, in all the spirit and ardour of that 
charming hymn. These are no ideal pleasures, 
they are real delights ; and I ask what of the 
delights among the sons o' men are superior, 



not to say equal to them ? And they have thi. 
precious, vast addition, that conscious virtufl 
stamps them for her own ; and lays hold oq 
them to bring herself into the presence of » 
witnessing, judging, and approving God. 

R. B 



CCXCIII 



TO THE EARL OP GLENCAIRN. 

[The original letter is m the possession of the Hon 
Mrs. Halland, of Poynings : it is undated, but from a 
memorandum on the back it appears to have been written 
m May, 1794.] 

May, 1794. 
My Loed, 

When you cast your eye on the name at the 
bottom of this letter, and on the title-page of 
the book I do myself the honour to send your 
lordship, a more pleasurable feeling than my 
vanity tells me that it must be a name not en- 
tirely unknown to you. The generoiis patronage 
of your late illustrious brother found me in the 
lowest obscurity : he introduced my rustic muse 
to the partiality of my country ; and to him I 
owe all. My sense of his goodness, and the 
anguish of my soul at losing my truly noble 
protector and friend, I have endeavoured to 
express in a poem to his memory, which I have 
now published. This edition is just from the 
press ; and in my gratitude to the dead, and 
my respect for the living (fame belies you, my 
lord, if you possess not the same dignity of man, 
which was your noble brother's characteristic 
feature), I had destined a copy for the Earl of 
Glencairn. I learnt just now that you are in 
town : — allow me to present it you. 

I know, my lord, such is the vile, venal conta* 
gion which pervades the world of letters, that 
professions of respect from an author, particu- 
larly from a poet, to a lord, are more than sus- 
picious. I claim my by-past conduct, and my 
feelings at this moment, as exceptions tc taa 
too just conclusion. Exalted as are the honours 
of your lordship's name, and unnoted as is the 
obscurity of mine ; with the uprightness of an 
honest man, I come before your lordship with 
an offering, however humble, 'tis all I have to 
give, of my grateful respect ; and to beg of 
you, my lord, — 'tis all I have to ask of you,— 
that you will do me the honour to accept of it 
I have the honour to be, 

R. B, 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



in 



OCXCIV. 

TO MR. THOMSON. 

^Th« correspondence between thq poet and the musi- 
^iian wans intsnapted in spring, but in Buramer and au- 
tvimr, the • tr.j-strains were renewed.] 

May, 1794. 
Mt dear Sir, 

I return you the plates, -with which I am 
highly - pleased ; I would humbly propose, in- 
stead of the younker knitting stockings, to put 
a stock and horn into his hands. A friend of 
mine, who is positively the ablest judge on the 
Bubject I have ever met with, and, though an 
unknown, is yet a superior artist with the burin, 
is quite charmed with Allan's manner. I got 
him a peep of the " Gentle Shepherd ;" and he 
pronounces Allan a most original artist of great 
excellence. 

For my part, I look on Mr. Allan's choosing 
Mj favourite poem for his subject, to be one of 
the highest compliments I have ever received. 

I am quite vexed at Pleyel's being cooped up 
In France, as it will put an entire stop to cfur 
work. Now, and for six or seven months, I 
shall be quite in song, as you shall see by and 
bye. I got an air, pretty enough, composed by 
Lady Elizabeth Heron, of Heron, which she 
calls "The Banks of Cree." Cree is a beauti- 
ful rom9,ntic stream ; and, as her ladyship is a 
particular friend of mine, I have written the 
following song to it. 

Here is the glen and here the bower.' 

R. B. 



CCXCV. 
rO DAVID M'CULLOCH, ESQ. 

■ The endorsement on the back of the original letter 
ihc ws in what far lands it has travelled : — " Given by Da- 
*i<i M'Culloch, Penang 181Q. A. Fraser." "Received, 
nti. December^ 1823 in Calcutta, from Captain Frazer's 
widow, by me Thomas Rankine." " Transmitted to 
Archibald P i%i9, Esq., London, March 27th, 1824, from 
Bombay."] 

Dumfries, 2\st June, 1794. 

Mt dear Sir, 

Mt long-projected journey through your 

lountry is at last fixed : and on Wednesday next, 

(f you kave nothing of more importance to do, 

take a saunter dpwn to Gatehouse about two or 



three o'clock, I shall be happy to take a drair^ht 
of M'Kune's best with you. Collector Syme 
will be at Glens about that time, and will meet 
us about dish-of-tea hour. Syme goes also to 
Kerroughtree, and let me remind you of your 
kind promise to accompany me there ; I will 
need all the friends I can muster, for I am in- 
deed ill at ease whenever I approach your ho- 
n'ourables and right honourables. 

Yours sincerely, 

R. B. 



CCXCVI. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

[Castle Douglas is a thriving Galloway village : it wag 
in other days called " The Carlinwark," but accepted its 
present proud name from an opulent family of mercantile 
Douglasses, well known in Scotland, England, and 
America.] 

Castle Douglas, 25th June, 1794. 
Here, in a solitary inn, in a solitary village, 
am I set by myself, to amuse my brooding fancy 
as I may. — Solitary confinement, you know, ia 
Howard's favourite idea of reclaiming sinners ; 
so let me consider by what fatality it happens 
that I have so long been so exceeding sinful as to 
neglect the correspondence of the most valued 
friend I have on earth. To tell you that I have 
been in poor health will not be excuse enough, 
though it is true. I am afraid that I am about 
to suffer for the follies of my youth. My medi- 
cal friends threaten me with a flying gout ; but 
I trust they are mistaken. 

I am just going to trouble your critical pa^ 
tience with the first sketch of a stanza I have 
been framing as I passed along the road. The 
subject is Liberty: you know, my honoured 
friend, how dear the theme is to me. I design 
it as an irregular ode for General Washington's 
birth-day. After having mentioned the dege- 
neracy of other kingdoms, I come to Scotlani 
thus : — 

Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among. 
Thee, famed for martial deed, and sacred soafe 

To thee I turn with swimming eyes ; 
Where is that soul of freedom fled ? 
Immingled with the mighty dead ! 

Beneath the hallowed turf where Wallac* 
lies ! 
Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of dea'li ! 

Ye babbling winds in silence sweep, 
Disturb not ye the hero's sleep." 



ISO 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



frith additions of 

That arm which nerved with thundering fate, 
Braved usurpation's boldest daring ! 

One quenched in darkness like the sinking star, 
A-nd one the palsied arm of tottei-ing, power- 
less age. 

Tou will probably have another scrawl from 
aae in a stage or two. R. B. 



know I am no connoisseur: but that I am ai 
amateiir — will be allowed me. 

E B 



TO MR. JAMES JOHNSON. 

[The anxiet}' of Burns about the accuracy of his poetry^ 
while in the press, was great : he found full employment 
for months in correcting a new edition of his poems.] 

Dumfries, 1794. 
Mt dear Feiend, -^ 

Yov should have heard from me long ago ; 
but over and above some vexatious share in the 
pecuniary losses of these accursed times, I have 
all this winter been plagued with low spirits and 
Diue devils, so that / have almost hung my harp 
on the willow-trees. 

I am just now busy correcting a new edition 
of my poems, and this, with my ordinary busi- 
ness, finds me in full employment. 

I send you by my friend Mr. Wallace forty- 
one songs for your fifth volume ; if we cannot 
finish it in any other way, what would you think 
of Scots words to some beautiful Irish airs? 
In the mean time, at your leisure, give a copy 
of the Museum to my worthy friend, Mr. Peter 
Hill, bookseller, to bind for me, interleaved with 
• blank leaves, exactly as he did the Laird of 
Glenriddel's, that I may insert every anecdote 
I can learn, together with my own criticisms 
and remarks on the songs. A copy of this kind 
T shall leave with you, the editor, to publish at 
some after period, by way of making the Mu- 
seum a book famous to the end of time, and 
you renowned tor ever. 

I have got an Highland dirk, for which I 
have great veneration ; as it once was the dirk 
of Lord Balmerino. It fell into bad hands, who 
stripped it of the silver mounting, as well as 
the knife and fork. I have some thoughts of 
Bending it to your care, to get it mounted anew. 

Thank you for the copies of my Volunteer 
Ballad. — Our friend Clarke has done indeed well ' 
tis chaste and beautiful. I have not met with 
fciything that has pleased me so much. You 



TO MR. THOMSON. 

[The blank in this letter could be filled up wiO.ou 
writing treason: but nothing has been omitted of as 
original nature.] 

July, 1794. 

Is there no news yet of Pleyel ? Or is your 
work to be at a dead stop, until tlie allies set 
our modern Orpheus at liberty from the savage 
thraldom of democrat discords ? Alas the day i 
And woe is me! That auspicious period, preg- 
nant with the happiness of millions. * • * • 

I have presented a copy of your songs to the 
daughter o^ a much-valued and much-honoured 
friend of mine, Mr. Graham of Fintray. I 
wrote on the blank side of the title-page the 
following aadress to the young lady : 

Here, where the Scottish muse immortal IItcs, 
&c.» 

R. B 



CCXCIX. 
TO MR. THOMSON. 

[Thomson says to Burns, "You have anticipated my 
opinion of ' O'er the seas and far away.' " Yet some o. 
the verses are original and touching.] 

ZOth August, 1794. 

The last evening, as I was straying out, anc 
thinking of " O'er the hills and far away," .- 
spun the following stanza for it; but whethe 
my spinning will deserve to be laid up in store, 
like the preciotis thread of the silk-worm, or 
brushed to the devil, like the vile manufacture 
of the spider, I leave, my dear Sir, to your 
usiial candid criticism. I was pleased with 
several lines in it at first, but I own that now i< 
appears rather a flimsy business. 

This is just a hasty sketch, until I see whtther 
it be worth a critique. We have many sailor 
songs, but as far as I at present recollect, they 
are mostly the effusions of the jovial sailor, not 
the wailings of his love-lorn mistress. I must 
here make one sweet exception — " Sweet Anni« 
fraethe sea-beach came." Now for the song:— 
How can my poor heart be glad.2 



1 Poem CCXXIX. 



2 Song CCXXIV. 



OF EGBERT JURNS. 



481 



I give you leave to abuse this song, but do it 
m the spirit of Christian meekness. 

R. B. 



TO MR. THOMSON. 

fTThe stream on the banks of which this song is sup- 
pusdd to.be sung, is known by three names, Cairn, Dal- 
gonar, and Cluden. It rises under the name of Cairn, 
nins through a wild country, undei the name of Dalgo- 
nar, affording fine trout-fishing as well as fine scenes, 
and under that of Cluden it all but washes the walls of 
".includen College, and then unites with the Nith.] 

Sept. 1794. 

1 SHALL withdraw kj "On the seas and far 
away" altogether : it is unequal, and unworthy 
the work. Making a poem is like begetting a 
eon ; you cannot know whether you have a wise 
man or a fool, until you produce him to the 
world to try him. 

For that reason I send you the offspring of 
my brain, abortions and all ; and, as such, pray 
look over them, and forgive them, and burn 
them. I am flattered at your adopting " Ca' 
the yowes to the knowes," as it was owing to 
me that ever it saw the light. About seven 
years ago I was well acquainted with, a worthy 
little fellow of a clergyman, a Mr. Clunie, who 
sang it charmingly; and, at my request, Mr. 
Clarke took it down from his singing. When I 
gave it to Johnson, I added some stanzas to the 
song, and mended others, but still it will not do 
for you. In a solitary stroll which I took to- 
day, I tried my hand on a few pastoral lines, 
following up tie idea of the chorus,- which I 
would preserve. Here it is, with all its crudi- 
ties and imperfections on its head. 

Ca' the yowes to the knowes, &c.' 

I shall give you my opinion of your other 
a«wly adopted songs my first scribbling fit. 



CCCI. 
TO MR. THOMSON. 

[Dr. Maxwell, whose skill called forth the praises ol 
the poet, had ths honour^f being named by Burke in the 
House of Commons: he shared in the French revolution, 



Song CCXXV 



ESongCCXXVI, 



and narrowly escaped the guillo*^»ie, like maiy other 
true friends of liberty.] 

^cpt. 1794 
Do you know a blackguard Irish song called 
" Onagh's Waterfall ?" The air is charming, 
and I have often regretted the want of decent 
verses to it. It is too much, at least for my 
humble rustic muse, to expect that every efforl 
of hers shall have merit; still I think that it is 
better to have mediocre verses to a favourite 
air, than none at all. On this principle I have 
all along proceeded in the Scots Musical Mu- 
seum ; and as that publication is at its last 
volume, I intend the following song, to the air 
above mentioned, for that work. 

If it does not suit you as an editor, you may 
be pleased to have verses to it that you can siny 
in the company of ladies. 

Sae flaxen were her ringlets.^ 

Not to compare small things with great, my 
taste in music is like the mighty Frederick of 
Prussia's taste in painting: we are told that he 
frequently admired what the connoisseurs de- 
cried, and always without any hypocrisy con 
fessed his admiration. I am sensible that my 
taste in music must be inelegaut and vulgar, 
because people of undisputed and cultivated 
taste can find no merit in my favourite tunes. 
Still, because I ^m cheaply pleat,ed, is that any 
reason why I should deny myself that pleasure? 
Many of our strathspeys, ancient and modern, 
give me most exquisite enjoyment, where you 
and other judges would probably be showing 
disgust. For instance, I am just now making 
verses for " Piothemurche's rant," an air which 
puts me in raptures ; and, in fact, unless I be 
pleased with the tune, I never can make verses 
to it. Here I have Clarke on my side, who is a 
judge that I Tfill pit against any of you. " Rothe- 
murche," he says, "is an air both original and 
beautiful;" and, on his recommendation, I have 
taken the first part of the tune for a chorus, 
and the fourth or last part for the song. I am 
but two stanzas deep in the work, and poss.bly 
you may think, and justly, that the poetry is as 
little worth your attention as the music 

[Here follow two stanzas of the song, beginning Lai- 
Bie wi' the lint-white locks." Song CCXXXIII.] 

I have begun anew, " Let me in this ae night '* 
Do you think that we ought to retain the old 
chorus ? I think we must retain both the old 
chorus and the first stanza of the oM song. 



182 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



do not altogether like the third line of the first 
Btanza, but cannot alter it to please myself. I 
cm iust three stanzas deep in it. Wouli you 
ba\e the denouement to be successful or other- 
v'se ? — should she "let him in" or not? 

Did you not once propose " The sow's tail to 
Geordie" as an air for your work? I am quite 
delighted with it ; but I acknowledge that is no 
mark of its real excellence. I once set about 
verses for it, which I meant to be in the alter- 
nate way of a lover and his mistress chanting 
together. I have not the pleasure of knowing 
Mrs. Thomson's Christian name, and yours, I 
am afraid, is rather burlesque for sentiment, 
else I had meant to have made you the hero 
and heroine of the little piece. 

How do you like the following epigram which 
I wrote the other day on a lovely young girl's 
recovery from a fever ? Doctor Maxwell was 
the physician who seemingly saved her from 
ihe grave ; and to him I address the following : 

TO DR. MAXWELL, 

ON MISS JESSIE STAIG's KE|C0VERT. 

Maxwell, if merit here you crave, 

That merit I deny : 
Tou save fair Jessy from the grave ? — 

An angel could not die ! 

God grant you patience with this stupid 
epistle! R. B. 



TO MR. THOMSON. 

"■'fhe poet relates the history of several of his best 
..,ags ill this letter: the true old strain of " Andro and 
.a catty gun" is the first of its kind.] 

IQth October, 1794. ■ 
My dear FeihnD; 
By this morning's post I have your list, and, 
bi general I highly approve of it. I shall, at 
SEijre laisure, give you a critique on the whole. 
Clarke goes to your town by to-day's fly, and I 
wish you would call on him and take his opinion 
in general : you know his taste is a standard. 
He will return here again in a week or two, so 
please do not miss asking for him. One thing I 
hope he will do — persuade you to adopt my fa- 
vourite " Craigieburn-wood," in your selection: 
it is as great a favourite of his as of mine. The 
Udy on whom it was made is one of the finest 



women in Scotland ; and in fact (entrc nous) \t 
in a manner to me what Sterne's Eliza was to 
him — a mistress, or friend, or what you will, in 
the guileless simplicity of Platonic love. (Now, 
don't put any of your squinting constructions 
on this, or have any clishmaclaver about it 
among our acquaintances.) I assure you that 
to my lovely friend you are indebted for manj 
of your best songs of mine. Do you think that 
the sober, gin-horse routine of existence coulJ 
inspire a man with life, and love, and joy — 
could fire him with enthusiasm, or melt him 
with pathos, equal to the genius of your book ? 
No ! no ! Whenever I want to be more than 
ordinary in song — to be in some degree equal to 
your diviner airs — do you imagine I fast and 
pray for the celestial emanation 1 Tout au con- 
traire ! I have a glorious recipe ; the very one 
that for his own use was invented by the divi- 
nity of healing and poetry, when erst he p'ped 
to the flocks of Admetus. I put- myself in a 
regimen of admiring a fine woman ; and in pro- 
portion to the adorability of her charms, in pro- 
portion you are delighted with my verses. The 
lightning of her eye is the godhead of Parnas- 
sus, and the witchery of hel^smile the divinity 
of Helicon ! 

To descend to business : if you like my idea 
of "Whan she cam ben she bobbit," the follow- 
ing stanzas of mine, altered a little from what 
they were formerly, when set to another air, 
may perhaps do instead of worse stanzas : — 

saw ye my dear, my Phely.' 

Now for a few miscellaneous remarks. " The 
Posie" (in t' e Museum) is my composition ; th<» 
air was taken down from Mrs. Burns's voice. }> 
is well known in the west country, but the old 
words are trash. By the bye, take a look at 
the tune again, and tell me if you do not think 
it is the original from which "Roslin Castle" 
is composed. The second part in particula? 
for the first two or three bars, is exactly the 
old air. " Strathallan's Lament" is mine ; the 
music is by our right trusty and deservedly 
well -beloved Allan Masterton. " Donocht-Head' ' 
is not mine ; I would give ten pounds it were. 
It appeared first in the Edinburgh Herald, and 
came to the editor of that paper with the New- 
castle post-mark on it. " Whistle o'er the lavr 
o't" is mine : the music said to be by a John 

iSong CCXXVII. 



OF EGBERT BURNS. 



.18?. 



Bruce, a celebrated violin-player in Dumfries, 
about the beginning of this century. This I 
know, Bruce, who was an honest man, though a 
red-wud Highlandman, constantly claimed it; 
and by all the old musical people here is be- 
lieved to be the author of it. 

"Andrew and his cutty gun." The song to 
wLicn this is set in the Museum is mine, and 
Has composed on Miss Euphemia Murray, of 
Lintrose, commonly and deservedly called the 
F]<nver of Strathmore. 

" How long and dreary is the night !" I met 
with some, such words in a collection of songs 
Romewhere, which I altered and enlarged ; and 
tc please you, and to suit your favourite air, I 
have taken a stride or two across my room, and 
have arranged it anew, as you will find on the 
other page. 

How long and dreary is the night, &c.' 

Tell me how you like this. I differ from your 
idea of the expression of the tune. There is, 
to me, a great deal of tenderness in it. You 
cannot, in my opinion, dispense with a bass to 
your addenda airs. A lady of my acquaintance, 
a noted performer, plays and sings at the same 
time so charmingly, that I shall never bear to 
Bee any of her songs sent into the world, as 
naked as Mr. What-d'ye-call-um has done in his 
London collection.^ 

These English songs gravel me to death. I 
have not that -command of the language that I 
have of my native tongue. I ha'^e been at 
" Duncan Graj^," to dress it in English, but all 
I can do is deplorably stupid. Eor instance : — 

Let not woman e'er complain, &c.-^ 

Since the above, I have been out in the coun- 
try, taking a dinner with a friend, where I met 
with a lady whom I mentioned in the second 
page in this odds-and-ends of a letter. As 
usual, I got into song ; and returning home I 
tomposed the following : 

Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest creature 

If you honour my verses by setting the air to 
fcem, I will vamp up the old song, and make it 
English enough to be understood. 

I enclose you a musical cariosity, an East In- 
iian air, which you would swear was a Scottish 



"• Stmg CCXXVIII. 

* Mr. Ritson, whose collection of Scottish songs was 
tbliahtl this year. 



one. I know the authenticity of itj as the gen 
tleman who brought it over is a particular ac 
quaintance of mine. Do presei-ve me the copy 
I send you, as it is the only one I have. Clark* 
has set a bass to it, and I intend putting it into 
the Musical Museum. Here follow th€ verseu I 
intend for it. 

But lately seen in gladsome green, &6.* 
I would be obliged to you if yo » would pro 
cure me a sight of Ritson's collection of Engliwb 
songs, which you mention in your letter. I will 
thank you for another information, and that as 
speedily as you please : whether this miserable 
drawling hotchpotch epistle has not completely 
tired vou of my correspondence ? 

VARIATION. 

Now to the streaming fountain, 

Or up the heathy mountain, 
The hart, hind, and roe, freely, wildly-wantoi 
stray ; 

In twining hazel bowers. 

His lay the linnet pours : 

The lav'rock to the sky 

Ascends wi' sangs o' joy, 
While the sun and thou arise to bless the i&y 

When frae my Chloris parted. 

Sad, cheerless, broken-hearted, 
The night's gloomy shades, cloudy, d.avk o »» 
cast my sky. 

But -when she charms my sight. 

In pride of beauty's light ; 

When through my very heart 

Her beaming glories dart ; 
'Tis then, 'tis then I wake to life and joy l 

R. B. 



TO MR. THOMSON. 

[The presents made to the poet were far from mi ■*•! 
ous : the book for which he expresses his thirnks, V9t 
the work of the waspish Ritson.] 

November, 1794. 
. Many thanks to you, my dear Sir, for youj 
present ; it is a book of the utmost importance 
to me. I have yesterday begun my anecdotes, 
&c., for your work. I intend drawing them up 
in the form of a letter to you, which will sav« 



S Song CCXXIX. 4 Song CCXXX. 

5 Song CCXVI. 



t84 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



me from the tedious dull 'business of systematic 
arrangement. Indeed, as all 1 have to say con- 
sists of unconnected remarks, anecdotes, scraps 
of old songs, &c., it would be impossible to give 
tne work a beginning, a middle, and an end, 
which the critics insist to be absolutely necessary 
in a work. In my last, I told you my objections 
io the song you had selected for "My lodging 
is on the cold ground." On my visit the otlier 
day to my fair Chloris (that is the poetic name 
•f the lovely goddess of my inspiration), she 
suggested an idea, which Ij on my return from 
the visit, wrought into the following song. 

My Chloris, mark how green the groves.' 

How do you like the simplicity and tenderness 
of this pastoral ? I think it pretty well. 

I like you for entering so candidly and so 
kindly into the story of "ma chere amie." I as- 
sure you I was never more in earnest in my life, 
than in the account of that affair which I sent 
you in my last. Conjugal love is a passion 
which I deeply feel, and highly venerate ; but, 
somehow, it does not make such a figure in poesy 
as that other species of the passion, 

" Where love is liberty, and nature law." 
Musically speaking, the first is an instrument 
jf which the gamut is scanty and confined, but 
the tones inexpressibly sweet, while the last has 
powers equal to all the intellectual modulations 
of the human soul. Still, I am a very poet in 
my enthusiasm of the passion. The welfare and 
happiness of the beloved object is the first and 
inviolate sentiment that pervades my soul ; and 
whatever pleasures I might wish for, or whatever 
might be the raptures they would give me, yet, 
if they interfere with that first principle, it is 
having these, i^leasures at a dishonest price ; and 
justice forbids and generosity disdains the pur- 



Despairing of my own powers to give you 
variety enough in English songs, I have been 
turning over old collections, to pick out songs, of 
which the measure is something similar to what 
I want , and; with a little alteration, so as to 
suit ths rhythm of the air exactly, to give you 
them for your work. Where the songs have 
hitherto been but little noticed, nor have ever 
been set to music, I think the shift a fair one. 
A. song, which, under the same first verse, you 
trill find in Ramsay's Tea-table Miscellany, I 



have cut down for an English dress to yool 
"Dainty Davie," as follows: — 

It was the charming month of May.* 

You may think meanly of this, but take a look 
at the bombast original, and you will be sur- 
prised that I have made so much of it. I have 
finished my song to " Rothemurche's rant," and 
you have Clarke to consult as to the set of the 
air for singing. 

Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, &c.^ 

This piece has at least the merit of being a 
regular pastoral : the vernal morn, the summer 
noon, the autumnal evening, and the winter 
night, are regularly rounded. If you like it, 
well ; if not, I will insert it in the Museum. 

R. B 



* Song CCXXXI. 



S Song CCXXXII. 



CCCIV. 

TO MR. THOMSON. 

[Sir Walter Scott remarked, on the lyrics of Buraa, 
" that at last the writing a series of songs for large mu- 
sical collections degenerated into a slavish labour which 
no talents could support,"] 

I AM out of temper that you should set so 
sweet, so tender an air, as " Deil tak the wars," 
to the foolish old verses. You talk of the silli- 
ness of " Saw ye my father V — By heavens ! 
the odds is gold to brass ! Brides, the ol<d 
song, though now pretty well modernized into 
the Scottish language, is originally, ancl in the 
early editions, a bungling low imitation of the 
Scottish manner, by that genius Tom D'Urfey, 
so has no pretensions to be a Scottish produc- 
tion. There is a pretty English song by Sheri- 
dan, in the " Duenna," to this air, which is out 
of sight superior to D'Urfey's. It begins, 

"When sable night each drooping plant restoring." 
The air, if I understand the eipression of it 
properly, is the very native language of simpli- 
city, tenderness, and love. I have again gom 
gone over my song to the tune. 

Now for my English song to " Nancy's to th« 
greenwood," &c. 

Farewell thou stream that winding flows,* 

There is an air, " The Caledonian Hunt's De 
light," to which I wrote a song that you will find 
in Johnson, " Ye" banks and braes o' bonni* 



3 Song CCXXXIII. 



4 Song CCXXXIV. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



48d 



Ooon:" this air I think might find a place 
nmong your hundred, as Lear says of his knights. 
Do you know the history of the air ? It is cu- 
rious enough. A good many years ago, Mr. 
James Miller, writer in your good town, a gentle- 
man whom possibly you know, was in company 
with our friend Clarke ; and talking of Scottish 
music. Miller expressed an ardent amoition to 
be able to compose a Scots air. Mr. Clarke, 
partly by way of joke, told him to keep to the 
black keys of the harpsichord, and preserve 
some kind of rhythm, and he would infallibly 
compose a Scots air. Certain it is that, in a 
few days, Mr. Miller produced the rudiments 
of an air, which Mr. Clarke, with some touches 
aTid corrections, fashioned into the tune in ques- 
tion. Ritson, you know, has the same story 
»f the black keys ; but this account which I have 
just given you, Mr. Clarke informed me of 
several years ago. Now, to show you how diffi- 
cult it is to trace the origin of our airs, I have I 
heard it repeatedly asserted that this was an 
Irish air ; nay, I met with an Irish gentteman 
who affirmed he had heard it in Ireland among 
the old women; while, on the other hand, a 
countess informed me, that the first person who 
introduced the air into this country, was a 
baronet's lady of her acquaintance, who took 
down the notes from an itinerant piper in the 
Isle of Man. How difficult, then, to ascertain 
the truth respecting our poesy and music ! I, 
myself, have lately seen a couple of ballads sung 
through the streets of Dumfries, with my name 
at the head of them as the author, though it 
was the first time I had ever seen them. 

I thank you for admitting " Craigieburn- 
wood;" and I shall take care to furnish you 
with a new chor.us. In fact, the chorus was 
not my work, but a part of some old verses to 
the air. If I can catch myself in a more than 
ordinarily propitious moment, I shall write a 
aew " Craigieburn-wood" altogether. My heart 
is much in the theme. 

I am ashamed, my dear fellow, to make the 
ircquest; 'tis dunning your generosity; but in 
a moment when I had forgotten whether I was 
rich or poor, I promised Chloris a copy of your 
songs. It wrings my honest pride to write you 
this ; but an ungracious request is doubly so 
by a tedious apology. To make you some 
amends, as soon as I have extracted the neces- 
lary information out o^ them, I will retarn you 
iSitsow'ff volumes. 



The lady is not a little proud that she is tl 
make so distinguished a figure in your collec- 
tion, and I am not a little Mjoud that I have it 
in my power to please her so much. Lucky it 
is for your patience that my paper is done, foi 
when I am in a scribbling humour, 1 lUiQW m.i 
when to give over. R, B. 



cccv. 

TO MR. THOMSON. 

[Willy and Phely, in one of the lyrics which this let- 
ter contained, carry on the pleasant bandying of prais* 
till compliments grow scarce, and the lovers are redooed 
to silence.] 

19th November, 1794. 
You see, my dear Sir, what a piineiual cor- 
respondent I am ; though, indeed, you uriy thank 
yourself for the tedium of my letters, as you 
have so flattered me on my horsemanship with 
my favourite hobby, and have praised the- 
grace of his ambling so much, that I am scarcely 
ever ofi^ his back. For instance, this morning, 
though a keen blowing frost, in my walk before 
breakfast, I finished my duet, which you were 
pleased to praise so much. Whether I have 
uniformly succeeded, I will not say ; but here 
it is for you, though it is not an hour old 

Philly, happy be the day.' 

Tell me honestly how you like it, and point out 
whatever you think faulty. 

I am much pleased with your idea of singing 
our songs in alternate stanzas, and regret that 
you did not hint it to me sooner. In those that 
remain, I shall have it in my eye. I remember 
your objections to the name Philly, but it is the 
common abbreviation of Phillis. Sally, the only 
other name that suits, has to my ear a vul- 
garity about it, which unfits it for anything 
except burlesque. The legion of Scottish poet 
asters of the day, whom your brother editor, 
Mr. PJtson, ranks with me as my coevals, have 
always mistaken vulgarity for simplicity; where- 
as, simplicity is as much eloignee frc o vulgarity 
on the one hand, as from afifecte 1 point and 
puerile conceit on the other. 

I agree with you as to the air, " Craigieburn 
wood," that a chorus would, in some degree, 
spoil the effect, and shall certainly have non9 

1 Song CCXXXV. 



486 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



Try, 



in my projected song to it. It is not, however, 
a case in point with " Rothemurche ;" there, 
as in "Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch," a chorus 
goes, to my taste, well enough. As to the 
chorus going first, that is the case with *' Roy's 
Wife," as well as "Rothemurche." In fact, in 
the first part of both tunes, the rhythm is so 
peculiar and irregular, and on that irregularity 
depends so much of their beauty, that we must 
e'en -take them with all their- wildness, and 
humour the verse accordingly. Leaving out 
the starting note in both tunes, has, I think, an 
effect that no regularity could counterbalance 
the want of. 

{Oh Roy's wife of Aldivalloch. 
lassie wi' the lint-white locks. 
and 

«/^rv,^n„^ -.^UT. f Roy's wife of Aldivalloch. 
compare with^ . . , ,. . , , 

I. Lassie wi the Imt-white locks. 

Does not the tameness of tne prefixea syllable 
gtrike you ? In the last case, with the true furor 
of genius, you strike at once into the wild ori- 
ginality of the air ; whereas, 'in the first insipid 
method, it is like the grating screw of the pins 
before the fiddle is brought into tune. This is 
my taste ; if I am wrong, I beg pardon of the 
cognoscenti. . 

" The Caledonian Hunt" is so charming, that 
it would make any subj ect in a song go down ; 
but pathos is certainly its native tongue. Scot- 
tish bacchanalians we certainly want, though 
the few we have are excellent. For instance, 
"Todlin hame," is, for wit and humour, an 
unparalleled composition; and "Andrew and 
his cutty gun" is the work of a master. By the 
way, are you not quite vexed to think that 
those men of genius, for such they certainly 
were, who composed our fine Scottish lyrics, 
ehould be unknown ? It has given me many a 
Reart-ache. Apropos to bacchanalian songs in 
Scottish, I composed one yesterday, for an air 
I like much — "Lumps o' pudding." 

Contented wi' little and cantie wi' mair.' 

will send it to 
R. B. 



If you do not relish this air, 
Johnson. 



CCCVJ. 
TO MR. THOMSON. 



(The instrument which the poet got from the braes of 
♦ thol, soems of an order as rude and incapable of fine 



Song CCXXXVI. 



Bounde as the whistles which school-boy» make in epriii| 
from the smaller boughs of the plane-tree.] 

Since yesterday's penmanship, I have framed 
a couple of English stanzas, by way of an Eng- 
lish song to " Roy's Wife." You will allow me, 
that in this instanc-s my English corresponds iu 
sentiment with the Scottish. 

Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ?' 

Well ! I think this, to be done in two or thre« 
turns across my room, and with two or three 
pinches of Irish blackguard, is not so far amiss. 
You see I am determined to have my quantum 
of applause from somebody. 

Tell my friend Allan (for I am sure that wa 
only want the trifling circumstance of being 
known to one another, to be the best friends on 
earth) that I much suspect he has, in his plates, 
mi'^tnke^ the figure if the s+o-;k ^,nd Jnfirn. I 
have, at last, gotten one, but it is a very rude 
instrument. It is composed of three parts ; the 
stock, which is the hinder thigh-bone of a sheep, 
such as you see in a mutton ham ; the horn, 
which is a common Highland cow's horn, cut 
off at the smaller end, until the aperture be 
large enough to admit the stock to be pushed 
up through the horn until it be held by the 
thicker end of the thigh-bone ; and lastly, an 
oaten reed exactly cut and notched like that 
which you see every shepherd boy have, when 
the corn-stems are green and full grown. The 
reed is not made fast in the bone, but is held by 
the lips, and plays loose in the smaller end of 
the stock ; while the stock, with the horn hang- 
ing on its larger end, is held by the hands in 
playing. The stock has six or seven ventage's 
on the upper side, and one back-ventage, like 
the common flute. This of mine was made by 
a man from the braes of Athole, and is exactly 
what the shepherds wont to use in that country. 

However, either it is not quite properly bored 
in the holes, or else we have not the art of blow- 
ing it rightly ; for we can make little of it. H 
Mr. Allan chooses, I will send him a sight of 
mine, as I look on myself to be a kind of brother- 
brush with him. " Pride in poets is nae sin ;" 
and I will say it, that I look on Mr. Allan and 
Mr. Burns to be the only genuine and real 
painters of Scottish costume in the world. 

R. B. 



2 Song CCXXXVII 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



4S! 



CCOVII. 
TO PETER MILLER, JUN., ESQ., 

OF DALSWINTON. 

M ; a conversation with James Perry, editor of tlie 
Movung Chronicle, Mr. Miller, who was then member 
{•yr the Dumfries bo-youghs, kindly represented the po- 
perty a'ihe poet and the increasing number of his family : 
Perry a; once offered fifty pounds a year for any contri- 
Jtttions he might choose to make to his newspaper : the 
reasons for his refusal are stated in this letter.] 

Dumfries, Nov. 1794. 
Dear Sib, 

Your offer is indeed truly generous, and most 
sincerely do I thank you for it ; but in my pre- 
sent situation, I find that I dare not accept it. 
You well know my political sentiments ; and 
were I an insular individual, unconnected with 
a wife and a family of children, with the most 
fervid enthiisiasm I would have volunteered my 
services : I tnen could and woula have despised 
all consequences that might have ensued. 

My prospect in the Excise is something ; at 
least it is, encumbered as I am with the welfare, 
the very existence, of near half-a-score of help- 
less individuals, what I dare not sport with. 

In the mean time, they are most welcome to 
my Ode ; only, let them insert it as a thing they 
have met with by accident and unknown to me. 
—Nay, if Mr. Perry, whose honour, after your 
character of him, I cannot doubt; if he will 
give me an address and channel by which any- 
thing will come safe from those spies with which 
he may be certain that his correspondence is 
beset, I will now and then send him any bagatelle 
that I may write. In the present hurry of 
Europe, nothing but news and politics will be 
regarded ; but against the days of peace, which 
Heaven send soon, my little assistance may per- 
haps fill up an idle column of a newspaper. I 
have long had it in my head to try my hand in 
the way of little prose essays, which I prop 3se 
sen ling into the world though the medium of 
5on>3 newspaper ; and should these be worth 
his while, to these Mr. Perry shall be welcome ; 
and ail my reward shall be, his treating me 
with his paper, which, by the bye, to anybody 
Irho has the least relish for wit, is a high treat 
ndeed. 

With the most grateful esteem I am ever, 
Dear Sir, 

R. B. 



CCCVIII. 
TO MR. SAMUEL CLARKE. JUN.. 

DUMFRIES. 

[Political animosities troubled boc «ty during the <.a^ 
of Burns, as much at least ufs they disturb i* now — tta 
letter is an ingtance of it.] 

Sunday Morning. 
DEAR Sir, 

I was, I know, drunk last night, but I am 
sober this morning. From the expressions 
Capt. made use of to me, had I had no- 
body's welfare to care for but my own, we should 
certainly have come, according to the manners 
of the world, to the necessity of murdering one 
another about the business. The words were 
such as, generally, I believe, end in a brace of 
pistols ; but I am still pleased to think that I 
did not ruin the peace and welfare of a wife and 
a family jf children ii? a dmnken squabble. 
Farther, you know that the report of certain po- 
litical opinions being mine, has already once 
before brought me to the brink of destruction 
I dread lest last night's business may be misre- 
presented in the same way. — You, I beg, will 
take care to prevent it. I tax your wish for 
Mr. Burns's welfare with the task of waiting as 
soon as possible, on every gentleman who was 
present, and state this to him, and, as you please, 
show him this letter. What, after all, was the 
obnoxious toast? " May our success in the pre- 
sent war be equal to the justice of our cause." 
— A toast that the most outrageous frenzy of 
loyalty cannot object to. I request and beg 
that this morning you will wait en the partiea 
present at the fooKsb dispute. I shall only add, 
that I am truly sorry that a man who stood so 

high in my estimation as Mr. , should use 

me in the manner in which I conceive he has 
done. R. B. 



TO MR, THOMSON. 

[Burns allowed for the songs which Wo.cot wrote io« 
Thomson a degree of lyric merit which the world hat 
refused to sanction.] 

December, 1794. 

It is, I assure you, the pride of my heart to 
do anything to forward or add to the value of 
your book ; and as I agree with you that th« 
Jacobite song in the Museum to " There'll nevef 



188 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



be peace till Jamie comes hame," would not so 
well consort with Peter Pindar's excellent love- 
Bong to that air, I haye just fiamed for you the 
following : — 

Now in her green mantle, &c.' 

H ff does this please you? As to the point of 
time for the expression, in your proposed print 
from my " Sodger's Return," it must certainly 
be at — " She gaz'd." The interesting dubiety 
and suspense taking possession of her counte- 
nance, and the gushing fondness, with a mix- 
ture of roguish playfulness, in his, strike me as 
things of which a master will make a great deal. 
In great haste, but in great truth, yours. 

R. B. 



TO MR. THOMSON. 

[In this brief and off-hand way Burns bestows on 
Thomson one of the finest songs ever dedicated to the 
Baase of human freedom.] 

January^ 1795. 

I FEAS. for my songs; however, a few may 
please, yet originality is a coy feature in com- 
position, and in a multiplicity of eiforts in the 
same style, disappears altogether. For these 
three thousand years, we poetic folks have been 
describing the spring, for instance ; and as the 
spring continues the same, there must soon be 
a sameness m the imagery, &c., of these said 
rhyming folks. 

A great critic (Aikin) on songs, says that love 
and wine are the , exclusive themes for song- 
Writing. The following is on neither subject, 
*nd consequently is no song ; but will be al- 
i owed, I think, to be two or three pretty good 
prose thoughts inverted into rhyme. 

Is there for honest poverty.^ 

I do not give you the foregoing song for your 
book, but merely by way of vive la bagatelle ; 
for the piece is not really poetry. How wiU 
the following do for " Craigieburn-wood ?" — 

Sweet fa's the eve on Craigieburn.* 

Farewell God bless you! R. B. 



CCXXXVIIl. 



8 Song CCLXIV 



TO MR. THOMSON. 

[Of this letter Dr. Currie writes, " the poet must havi 
been tipsy indeed to abuse sweet Ecclefechan at thu 
rate;" it is one of the prettiest of our Annanda.e vi- 
lages, and the birth-place of that distinguished biog»a 
pher.] 

Ecclefechan, 1th February, 1795. 
Mt DBAS, Thomson, 

You cannot have any idea of the predicameni 
in which I write to you. In the course of my 
duty as supervisoi (in which capacity I have 
acted of late), I came yesternight to this unfor- 
tunate, wicked little village. I have gone for- 
ward, but snows of ten feet deep have impeded 
my progress: I have tried to "gae back the 
gate I cam again," but the same obstacle has 
shut me up within insuperable bars. To add 
to my misfortune, since dinner, a scraper has 
been torturing catgut, in sounds ^;liat would 
have insulted the dying agonies of a sow under 
the hands of a butcher, and thinks himself, op 
that very account, exceeding good company. 
In fact, I have been in a dilemma, either to get 
drunk, to forget these miseries ; or to hang 
myself, to get rid of them : like a prudent man 
(a character congenial to my every thought, 
word, and deed), I of two evils have chosen the 
least, and am very drunk, at your service ! 

I wrote you yesterday from Dumfries. I had 
not time then to tell you all I wanted to say ; 
and. Heaven knows, at present I have not ca- 
pacity. 

Do you know an air — I am sure you must 
know it — "We'll gang nae mair to yon town?" 
I think, in slowish time, it would make an ex- 
cellent song, I am highly delighted with it; 
and if you should think it worthy of your atten- 
tion, I have a fair dame in my eye to whom I 
would consecrate it.. 

As I am just going to bed, I wish you a gooJ 
night. R- B, 



CCCXII. 
TO MR. THOMSON. 

[The song of Caledonia, in honour of Mrs. Burns, 
accompanied by two others in honour of the poet'a i 



3 Sons CCXLV . 



OF EGBERT BURNS.* 



4Sb 



lr*8« the muge was high in eong, and used few words 
in the let^-^^r which enclosed them.] 

May, 1795. 
STAT, sweet warbling woodlark, stay!' 

Let me know, your very first leisure, how 
y »u like this song. 

Long, long the night.2 

How d: you like the foregoing? The Irish 
air, "Humours of Glen," is a great favourite 
of mine, and as, except the silly stuff in the 
" Poor Soldier," there are not any decent verses 
for it, 1 have written for it as follows : — 

Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands 
reckon.'' 



Let me hear from you. 



R. B. 



CCCXIII. 

TO MR. THOMSON. 

[The poe<- calls for praise in this letter, a species of 
»in which is always ready.] 

How cruel are the parents. -i 
Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion.^ 
Well, this is not aniiss. You see how I an- 
swer your orders — your tailor could not be more 
• punctual. I am just now in a high fit for poet- 
izing, provided that the strait-jacket of criti- 
cism don't cure me. If you can, in a post or 
two, administer a little of the intoxicating po- 
tion of your applause, it will raise your humble 
servant's phrensy to any height you want. I 
am at this moment " holding high converse" 
with the muses, and have not a word to throw 
away on such a prosaic dog as you are. 

R. B. 



CCCXIV. 
TO MR. THOMSON. 

[Thomson at this time sent the arawing to Burns in 
wta'jn David Allan sought to embody the " Cotter's 
Baturdsty Night:" it displays at once the talent and want 
nf taste of the ingenious artist,] 

May, 1795. 

Sen thousand thanks for your elegant pre- 
sent — though I am ashamed of the value of it, 

» Song CCXLIX. 2 Sor? CCL. 3 Song CCLI. 



being bestowed on a man who has not, by any 
means, merited such an instance of kindness. 
I have shown it to two or three judges of the 
first abilities here, and they all agree with me 
in classing it as a first-rate production. My 
phiz is sae kenspcckle, that the very joiner'a 
apprentice, whom Mrs. Burns employed to break 
up the parcel (I was out of town that day} knew 
it at once. My most grateful compliments to 
Allan, who has honoured my rustic music so 
much with his masterly pencil. . One strange 
coincidence is, that the little one who is making 
the felonious attempt on the cat's tail, is the 
most striking likeness of an ill-deedie, d — n'd, 
wee, rumblegaifie urchin of mine, whom from 
that propensity to witty wickedness, and man- 
fu' mischief, which, even at twa days auld, I 
foresaw would form the striking features of hia 
disposition, I named Willie Nicol, after a cer- 
tain friend of mine, who is one of the masters 
of a grammar-school in a city which shall oe 
nameless. 

Give the enclosed epigram to my much-va- 
lued friend Cunningham, and tell him, that on 
Wednesday I go to visit a friend of his, to 
whom his friendly partiality in speaking of me 
in a manner introduced me — I mean a well- 
known military and literary character. Colonel 
Dirom. 

You do not tell me how you liked my two last 
songs. Are they condemned ? 

R. B 



CCCXV. 

TO MR. THOMSON. 

[In allusion to the preceding letter, Thomson says o 
Burns, " You really make me blush when you tell m« 
you have not merited the drawing from me." The " Foi 
a' that and a' that," which went with this letter, was, i 
IS believed, the composition of Mrs. Riddel.] 

In " Whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad,' 
the iteration of that line is tiresome to my ear. 
Here goes what I think is an improvement : — 

Oh whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad ; 
Oh whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad ; 
Tho' father and mother and a' should gae mad, 
Thy Jeanie will venture wi' ye, my lad. 

In fact, a fair dame, at whose shrine I, th« 
priest of the Nine, offer up the incense of Par- 
nassus — a dame whom the Graces have attirej 



i Song CCLIII. 



5 Song CCLIV 



490 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



in witchcraft, and whom the Loves have armed 
with lightning — a fair one, herself the heroine 
of the song, insists on the amendment, and dis- 
pute her commands if you dare ? 

This is no my ain lassie, i &c. 

Do you know that you have roused the torpi- 
iity of Clarke at last ? He has requested me to 
jrrite three or four songs for him, which he is 
to set to muiMC himself. The enclosed sheet 
oolitains two songs for him, which please to pre- 
sent to my valued friend Cunningham. 

I enclose the sheet open, both for your inspec- 
tion, and that you may copy the song " Oh boH- 
nie was yon rosy brier." I do not know whether 
I am right, but that song pleases me ; and as it 
is extremely probable that Clarke's pewly- 
roused celestial spark will be soon smothered in 
the fog.a of indolence, if you like the song, it 
mi^j- go ^s Sccctis- verbes to .he au- oi • I vn^h 
my love was in a mire ;" and poor Erskine's 
English lines may follow. 

I enclose you a " For a' that and a' that," 
which was never in print : it is a much superior 
Bong to mine. I have been told that it was 
composed by a lady, and some lines written on 
the blank leaf of a copy of the last edition of 
my poems, presented to the lady whom, in so 
many fictitious reveries of passion, but with the 
most ardent sentiments of real friendship, I 
have so often sung under the name of Chloris : — 

To Chloris.* 



Une i 



telle de Vamitie. 



COILA. 

R, B. 



TO MR. THOMSON. 

[In the double service of poesy and music tlie poet had 
to sing of pangs which he never endured, from beauties 
to whom he had never spoken.] 

Forlorn my love, no comfort near, &c.3 

How do you like the foregoing ? I have writ- 
ten it within this hour : so much for the speed 
»f my Pegasus; but what say you to his bottom ? 

R. B. 



I Hong CCLV 2 Poems, No. CXLVI. 

3 Song CCLVIII. 



CCCXVII. 

TO MR. THOMSON. 

[The unexampled brevity of Burns's letters, ..nd thi 
extraordinary flow and grace of his songs, towards th« 
close of his life, have not now for the firs* tace l««* 
remarked.] 

Last May a braw wooer.* 
Why, why tell thy lover.^ 
Such is the peculiarity of the rhythm of this 
air, that I find it impossible to make another 
stanza to suit it. 

I am at present quite occupied with the charm- 
ing sensations of the toothache, so have not a 
word to spare. R. B. 



cccxvni. 

TO MRci. RiDbjiL. 

Supposes himself to b e -writing frorti the dead to tht 



[111 health, poverty, a, sense of dependence, with the 
much he had deserved of his country, and the little he 
had obtained, were all at this time pressing on the mind 
of Burns, and inducing him to forget what was due tc> 
himself as well as to the courtesies o< .'ife.] 

Madam, 
I DAEE say that this is the first epistle you 
ever received from this nether world. I write 
you from the regions of Hell, amid the horrors 
of the damned. The time and the manner cf 
my leaving your earth I do not exactly know, as 
I took my departure in the heat of a fever of 
intoxication contracted at your too hospitable 
mansion ; but, on my arrival here, I was fairly 
tried, and sentenced to endure the purgatorial 
tortures of this infernal confine for the space of 
ninety-nine years, eleven months, and twenty- 
nine days, and all on account of the impropriety 
of my conduct yesternight under your roof. 
Here am I, laid on a bed of pitiless fm-ze, with 
my aching head reclined on a pillow of ever« 
piercing thorn, while an infernal tormentor, 
wrinkled, and old, and cruel, his name I think 
is Recollection, with a whip of scorpions, forbids 
peace or rest to approach me, and keeps anguish 
eternally awake. Still, Madam, if I could in 
any measure be reinstated in the good opinion 
of the fair circle whom my conduct last nigh| 



4 Song CCLIX. 



» Song CCLX. 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



49i 



«c much injured, I think it would be an allevia- 
tion to my torments. For this reason I trouble 
you with this letter. To the men of the company 
I will make no apology. — Your husband, who 
insisted on my drinking more than I chose, has 
no right to blame me ; and the otlier gentlemen 
were partakers of my guilt. But to you, Madam, 
[ have much to apologize. Your good opinion I 
falued as'one of the greatest acquisitions I had 
mode' on earth, and I was truly a beast to forfeit 

it There was a Miss I , too, a woman of 

fine sense, gentle and unassuming manners — do 
make on my part, a miserable d-mned wretch's 

best apology to her. A Mrs. G , a charming 

woman, did me the honour to be prejudiced in 
mj' favour ; this makes me hope that I have not 
outraged her beyond all forgiveness. — To all the 
other ladies please present my humblest contri- 
tion friv mv -jondnct, ^nd nw petjtior for +heir 
gracious pardon. all ye powers oi decency 
and decorum ! whisper to them that my errors, 
tboiigh great, were involuntary — that an intoxi- 
cated man is the vilest of beasts — that it was 
not in my nature to be brutal to any one — that 
to be rude to a woman, when in my senses, was 
impossible with me — but — 

****** 

Regret ! Remorse ! Shame ! ye three hell- 
hounds that ever dog my steps and bay at my 
heels, spare me ! spare me ! 

Forgive the offences, and pity the perdition 
nf Madam, your humblfe slave. 

R. B. 



TO MRS. RIDDEL. 

[Mrs. Riddel, it is said, possessed many more of the 
l»o«t's letters than are printed — she sometimes read them 
to friends M'ho could feel their wit, and, like hersalf, 
«jHke allcvance for their freedom.] 

Dumfries, 1795. 
Mr BuKWrf j compliments to Mrs. Riddel — 
is much obliged to her for her polite attention 
In seiding him the book. Owing to Mr. B.'s 
oeing at present acting as supervisor of excise, 
a department that occupies his every hour of 
the day, he has not that time to spare which is 
necef«ary for any belle-lettre pursuit ; but, as 
he will, in a week or two, again return to his 
wonted leisure, he will then pay that attention 
•) Mrs. R.'s beautiful song, "To thee. lov«d 



Nith" — which It so well deserves. When "An* 
charsis' Travels" come to hand, which Mrs. 
Riddel mentioned as her gift to the public li- 
brary, Mr. B. will thank her for a reading of U 
previous to her sending it to the library, as it is 
a book Mr. B. has never seen : he wishes to have 
a longer perusal of them than the regulation! 
of the library allow. 

Friday Eve 
P. S. Mr. Burns will be much obliged ta 
Mrs. Riddel if she will favour him with a pera- 
sal of any of her poetical pieces which he may 
not have seen. R. B 



CCCXX. 

Tv. M..3S ^OCiSi. FCx'TT^NLxiLii,. 

[That Miss Fontenelle, as an actress, did not deserv* 
the high praise which Burns bestows may be guessed: 
the lines to which he alludes were recited by the lady on 
her benefit-night, and are printed among. his Poems.] 

Dumfries, December, 1795. 
Madam, 

In such a bad world as ours, those who add 
to the scanty sum of our pleasures, are posi- 
tively our benefactors. To you. Madam, on 
our humble Dumfries boards, I have been more 
indebted for entertainment than ever I was in 
prouder theatres. Your charms as a woman 
would insure applaiise to the most indifferent 
actress, and your 'heatrical talents would in- 
sure admiration to the plainest figure. This, 
Madam, is not the unmeaning or insidious com- 
pliment of the frivolous or interested ; I pay it 
from the same honest impulse that the sublime 
of nature excites my admiration, or her beauties 
give me delight. 

Will the foregoing lines be of any service ta 
you in your approaching benefit-night ? If they 
will I shall be prouder of my muse than ever. 
They are nearly extempore : I know they have 
no great merit ; but though they should add but 
little to the entertainment of the evening, they 
give me the happiness of an opportunity to (ie« 
clare how much I have the honour to be, &c. 

R. B. 



(92 



GENEHAL CORRESPONDENCE 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

rUf the sweet girl to whom Burns alludes in this letter 
he was deprived during this year: her death pressed 
lorely on him.] 

15th December, 1795. 
Mt dear Feiend, 

As 1 am in a complete Decemberish humour, 
glo(imy, sullen, stupid as even the Deity of Dul- 
ness herself could wish, I shall not drawl out a 
heavy letter with a number of heavier apologies 
for my late silence. Only one I shall mention, 
because I know you will sympathize in it : these 
four months, a sweet little girl, my youngest 
child, has been so ill, that every day, a week or 
less, threatened to terminate her existence. 
There had much need be many pleasures an- 
nexed to the states of husband and father, for, 
God knows, they have many peculiar cares. I 
cannot describe to you the anxious, sleepless 
hours these ties frequently give me. I see a 
train of helpless little folks ; me and my exer- 
tions all their stay: and on what a brittle 
thread does the life of man hang ! If I am nipt 
off at the command of fate ! even in all the vigour 
of manhood as I am — such things happen every 
day — gracious God ! what would become of my 
little flock! 'Tis here that I envy your people 
of fortune. — A father on his death-bed, taking 
an everlasting leave of his children, has indeed 
woe enough ; but the man of competent fortune 
leaves his sons and daughters independency Snd 
friends ; while I — but I shall run distracted if 
I think any longer on the subject! 

To leave talking of the matter so gravely, I 
fihall sing with the old Scots ballad — 

" O that I had ne'er been married, 
I would never had nae care ; 
Now I't» gotten wife and bairns, 
They cry crowdie ! evermair. 

CrowQie ! ance ; crowdie ! twice ; 

Crowdie ! three times in a day ; 
An ye crowdie ! ony mair, 

Ye'll crowdie ! a' my meal away." — 



December 24:ih. 
We have had a brilliant theatre here this sea- 
son; only, as all other business does, it experi- 
ences a stagnation of trade from the epidemical 
complaint of the countr j, want of cash. I men- 
tioned our theatre merely to lug in an occasional 
Address which I wrote for the benefit-night of 
me of the actresses, and which is as follows: — 



ADDRESS, 

SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE OS HER BENEFIT-NMHl 
DEC. 4, 1795, AT THE THEATRE, DUMPRIK8. 

Still anxious to secure your partial favour, &o 

25th, Christmas-3Iorning. 

This, my much-loved friend, is a morning of 
wishes — accept mine — so heaven hear me as 
they are sincere! that blessings may attend your 
steps, and affliction know you not ! In the 
charming words of my favourite author, " The 
Man of Feeling," "May the Great Spirit bear 
up the weight of thy gray hairs, and blunt the 
arrow that brings them rest !" 

Now that I talk of authors, how do you like 
Cowper ? Is not the " Task" a glorious poem \ 
The religion of the " Task," bating a few scraps 
of Calvinistic divinity, is the religion of God 
and nature ; the religion that exalts, that en- 
nobles man. Were not you to send me your 
" Zeluco," in return for mine ? Tell me how 
you like my marks and notes through the book. 
I would not give a farthing for a book, unless I 
were at liberty to blot it with my criticisms. 

I have lately collected, for a fiend's perusal, 
all my letters ; I mean those which I first 
sketched, in a rough draught, and afterwards 
wrote out fair. On looking over some old musty 
papers, which, from time to time, I had pai-- 
celled by, as trash that were scarce worth pre- 
serving, and which yet at the same time I did 
not care to destroy ; I discovered many of these 
rude sketches, and have written, and am writ- 
ing them out, in a bound MS. for my friend's 
library. As I wrote always to you the rhap- 
sody of the moment, I cannot find a single scroll 
to you, except one about the commencement of 
our acquaintance. If there were any possible 
conveyance, I would send you a perusal of my 
book. R. B. 



TO MR. ALEXANDER FINDLATER 

SUPEKVISOR OF EXCISE, DUMFRIES. 

[The person to whom this letter is addresiied, is the 
same who lately denied that Burns was harshly used b> 
the Board of Excise : but those, and they are many, who 
believe what the poet wrote to Erskine, of Mar, cannot 
agree with Mr. Findlater.] 

Sir, 
Enclosed are the two schemes. I would not 
have troubled you with the collector's one, bn| 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



493 



for suspicion lest it be not right. Mr. Erskine 
promised me to make it right, if you -will have 
the goodness to show him how. As I have no 
copy of the scheme for myself, and the altera- 
tions being very considerable from what it was 
formerly, I hope that I shall have access to this 
scheme I S3nd you, when I come to face up my 
new books. So much for schemes. — And that no 
scheme to betray a friend, or mislead a stran- 
ser; "to seduce a YouNa girl, or rob a hen- 
roost; to subvert liberty, or bribe an excise- 
man ; to disturb the general assembly, or 
annoy a gossipping ; to overthrow the credit 
of orthodoxy, or the authority of old sonos ; 
to oppose your wishes, or frustrate my hopes — may 
prosper — is the sincere wish and prayer of 

R. B. 



CCCXXIII. 



TO THE EDITOR OF THE MORN- 
ING CHRONICLE. 

(Oromek says, when a neighbour complained that his 
copy of the Morning Chronicle was not regularly de- 
livered to him from the post-office, the poet wrote the 
following indignant letter to Perry on a leaf of his excise- 
book, but before it went to the post he reflected and 
■ecalled it.] 

Dumfries, 1795. 
Sir, 

You will see by your subscribers' list, that I 
aave been about nine months of that ^lumber. 

I am sorry to inform you, that in that time, 
seven or eight of your papers either have never 
been sent me, or else have never reached me. 
To be deprived of any one number of the first 
newspaper in Great Britain for information, 
ability, and independence, is what I can ill 
brook and bear ; but to be depi-ived of that most 
admirable oration of the Marquis of Lansdowne, 
when he made the great though ineffectual at- 
tempt (in the language of the poet, I fear too 
true), "to save a sinking state" — this was a 
'os3 that I neither can nor will forgive you. — 
That paper. Sir, never reached me; but I de- 
mand it of you. I am a Briton ; and must be 
interested in the cause of liberty: — I am a 
man ; and the rights of human nature cannot 
be indifferent to me. However, do not let me 
mislead you : I am not a man in that situation 
of life, which, as your subscriber, can be of 
any consequence to you, in the eyes of those to 
whom situation of life alone is the criterion 
,f MAN. — I am but a plain tradesman, in this 



distant, obscure country town : but that humbia 
domicile in which I shelter my wile and children 
is the Castellum of a Briton ; and that scanty^ 
hard-earned income which supports them is aa 
truly my property, as the most magnificent 
fortune, of the most puissant member of ycM 
house of nobles. 

These, Sir, are my */-iQtiments ; ind to them 
I subscribe my name : and were I a man cf 
ability and consequense enough to address th« 
public, with that name should they appear. 
I am, &c. 



CCCXXIV. 

To MR. HERON, 

of heron. 

[Of Patrick Heron, of Kerroughtree, something hai 
been said in the notes on the Ballads which bear hii 
name.] 

Dumfries, 1794, or 1795- 
SiR, 

I enclose you some copies of a couple of po- 
litical ballads ; one of which, I believe, you 
have never seen. Would to Heaven I could 
make you master of as many votes in the Stew- 
artry — but — 

" Who does the utmost that he can. 
Does well, acts nobly, angels could no more." 

In order to bring my humble efforts to bear 
with more effect on the foe, I have privately 
printed a good many copies of both ballads, and 
have sent them among friends all about the 
country. 

To pillory on Parnassus the rank reprobation 
of character, the utter dereliction of all prin 
ciple, in a profligate junto which has not only 
outraged virtue, but violated common decency ; 
which, spurning even hj'pocrisy as paltry ini- 
quity below their daring; — to unmask their 
flagitiousness to the broadest day — to delivei 
such over to their merited fate, is surely not 
merely innocent, but laudable ; is not only pro- 
priety, but virtue. You have already, as your 
auxiliary, the sober detestation of mankind on 
the heads of your opponents ; and » swear by 
the lyre of Thalia to muster on your side all 
the votaries of honest laughter, and fair, candiq 
ridicule ! 

I am extremely obliged to you for your kind 
mention of my interests in a letter which Mr 
Syme showed me. At present my situation in 
life must be in a great measure stationary, at 



194 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



least for two or three years. The statement is 
this — I am on the supervisors' list, and as -we 
come on there by precedency, in two or three 
years I shall be at the head of that list, and be 
appointed oj course. Then, a fkibno might be 
of service to me in getting me into a place of 
the kingdom which I would like. A supervisor's 
income varies from about a hundred and twenty 
te two hundred a year ; but the business is an 
incessant dr.udgery, and would be nearly a 
complete bar to every species of literary pur- 
smit.' The moment T am appointed supervisor, 
in the common routine, I may be nominated on 
the collector's list; and this is always a busi- 
ness purely of political patronage. A collector- 
ship varies much, from better than two hundred 
a year to near a thousand. They also come 
forward .by precedency on the list ; and have, 
besides a handsome income, a life of complete 
leisure. A life of literary leisure with a decent 
competency, is the summit of my wishes. It 
would be the prudish affectation of silly pride 
in me to say that I do not need, or would not 
be indebted to a political friend; at the same 
time, Sir, I by no means lay my affairs before 
you thus, to hook my dependent situation on 
your benevolence. If, in my progress of life, 
an opening should occur where the good ofiBces 
of a gentleman of your public character and 
political consequence might bi-ing me forward, 
I shall petition your goodness with the same 
frankness as I now do myself the honour to sub- 
Bcribe myself R. B. 



CCCXXV. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP, 

IN LONDON. 

[In tha correspondence of the poet with Mrs. Dunlop 
>B rarely mentions Thomson's Collection of Songs, 
hough his L*art was set much upon it: in the Dunlop 
.ibrary tier* are mnny letters from the poet, it is said, 
wnioh hs s net been published.] 

Dumfries, 20th December, 1795. 
I HAVE been prodigiously disappointed in this 
1 ondon journey of yours. In the first place, 
when your last to me reached Dumfries, I was 
In file country, and did not return until too 
late to answer your letter ; in the next place, I 
thought you would certainly take this route ; 
iind aon I know not what is become of you, or 



whether this may reach you at all. God gran- 
that it may find you and yours in prospering 
health and good spirits ! Do let me hear from 
you the soonest possible. 

As I hope to get a, frank from my friend Cap* 
tain Miller, I shall every leisure hour, take up 
the pen, and gossip away whatever comes fir«t, 
prose or poetry, sermon or song. In this last 
article I have abounded of late. I have often 
mentioned to you a superb publication of Sco't« 
tish songs which is making its appearance in 
your great metropolis, and where I have the 
honour to preside over the Scottish verse, as no 
less a personage than Peter Pindar does ovel 
the English. 

December 22th. 

Since I began this letter, I have been ap- 
pointed to act in the capacity of supervisor 
here, and I assure you, what with the load of 
business, and what with that business being 
new to me, I could scarcely have commanded 
ten minutes to have spoken to you, had you 
been in town, much less to have written you 
an epistle. This appointment is only temporary, 
and during the illness of the present incumbent ; 
but I. look forward to an early period when I 
shall be appoiiited in full form : a consumma- 
tion devoutly to be wished ! My political sins 
seem to be forgiven me. 

This is the season (New-year's-day is n^w my 
date) of wishing; and mine are most fervently 
offered up for you ! May life to you be a posi- 
tive blessing while it lasts, for your own sake ; 
and that it may yet be greatly prolonged, is my 
wish for my own sake, and for the sake of the 
rest of your friends ! What a transient business 
is life ! Very lately I was a boy ; but t'other 
day I was a young man; and I already begin 
to feel the rigid fibre and stiffening joints of 
old age coming fast o'er my frame. With all 
my follies of youth, and I fear, a few vices of 
manhood, still I congratulate myself on having 
had in early days religion strongly impressed 
on my mind. I have nothing to say to any one 
as to which sect he belongs to, or what creed he 
believes : but I look on the man, who is firmly 
persuaded of infinite wisdom and goodness, su- 
perintending and directing every circumstance 
that can happen in his lot — I felicitate such a 
man as having a solid foundation for his mental 
enjoyment ; a firm prop and sure stay, in the 
hour of difficulty, trouble, and distress ; and a 
never-failing anchor of hope, when he looks be- 
i yond the grave. 



OF EOBEET BURNS. 



49r 



January 12th. 

You will have seen our worthy and ingenious 
friend, the Doctor, long ere this. I hope he is 
well, and beg to be remembered to him. I have 
just been reading over again, I dare say for the 
hundred and fiftieth time, his Viezv of Society and 
Manners ; and still I read it with delight. His 
huoioui is perfectly original — it is neither the 
humour of Addison, nor Swift, nor Sterne, nor 
of anybody but Dr. Moore. By the bye, you 
have dejjrived me of Zeluco, remember that, 
when yoti are disposed to rake up the sins of 
toy neglect from among the ashes of my laziness. 

He has paid me a pretty compliment, by quot- 
ing mt} In his last publication.' 

* * * -x- * * 

R. B. 



ADDRESS OF THE SCOTCH DISTILLERS 

TO THE RIGHT HON. WILLIAM PITT. 

[This ironical letter to the prime minister was found 
among the papers of Burns.] 

SlE, 
While pursy burgesses crowd your gate, sweat- 
ing under the weight of heavy addresses, per- 
mit us, the quondam distillers in that part of 
Great Britain called Scotland, to approach you, 
not with venal approbation, but with fraternal 
condolence ; not as what you are just now, or 
for some time have been ; but as what, in all 
probability, you will shortly be. — We shall have 
the merit of not deserting our friends in the 
day of their calamity, and you will have the 
satisfaction of perusing at least one honest ad- 
dress. You are well acquainted with the dis- 
section of human nature ; nor do you need the 
assistance of a fellow-creature's bosom to in- 
form you, that man is always a selfish, often a 
perfidious being. — This assertion, however the 
hasty conclusions of superficial observation may 
ioubt of it, or the raw inexperience of youth 
fliay deny it, those who make the fatal experi- 
ment we have,done, will feel. — You are a states- 
man, and consequently are not ignorant of the 
traffic of these corporation compliments — The 
little great' man who drives the borough to 
market, and the very great man who buys the 
borough in that market, they two do the whole 
business ; and you well know they, likewise, 



Edward. 



have their price. With that sullen disdain 
which you can so well assume, rise, illustrious 
Sir, and spurn these hireling eflforts of venal 
stupidity. At best they are the compliments of 
a man's friends on the morning of his execution: 
they take a decent farewell, resign you to your 
fate, and hurry away from your approaching 
hour. 

If fame say true, and omens be not very much 
mistaken, you are about to make your exit from 
that world where the sun of gladness gilds the 
paths of prosperous man: permit us, great Sir, 
with the sympathy of fellow-feeling to hail your 
passage to the realms of ruin. 

Whether the sentiment proceed from the 
selfishness or cowardice of mankind is immate- 
rial ; but to point out to a child of misfortune 
those who are still more unhappy, is to give him 
some degree of positive enjoyment. In this 
light. Sir, our downfall may be again useful to 
you : — though not exactly in the same way, it 
is not perhaps the first time it has gratified 
your feelings. It is true, the triumph of your 
evil star is exceedingly despiteful. — At an age 
when others are the votaries of pleasure, or un- 
derlings in business, you had attained the high 
est wish of a British statesman ; and with the 
ordinary date of human life, what a prospect 
was before you ! Deeply rooted in Royal favour, 
you overshadowed the land. The birds of pas- 
sage, which follow ministerial sunshine through 
every clime of political faith and manners, 
flocked to your branches ; and the beasts of the 
field (the lordly possessors of hills and valleys) 
crowded under your shade. "But behold a 
watcher, a holy one, came down from heaven, 
and cried aloud, and said thus : Hew down the 
tree, and cut off his branches ; shake off his 
leaves, and scatter his fruit ; let the beasts get 
away from under it, and the fowls from his 
branches !" A blow from an unthought-of quar • 
ter, one of those terrible accidents which pecu 
liarly mark the hand of Omnipotence, oversel 
your career, and laid all your fancied honours In 
the dust. But turn your eyes, Sir, to the tragic 
scenes of our fate : — an ancient nation, that for 
many ages had gallantly maintained the unequal 
struggle fot'independence with her much more 
powerful neighbour, at last agrees to a union 
which should ever after make them one people; 
In consideration of certain circumstances, it 
was covenanted that the former should enjoy a 
stipulated alleviati an in her share of the public 



496 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



burdens, particularly in tlaat branch of tlie re- 
venue called the Excise. This just privilege has 
of late given great umbrage to some interested, 
powerful individuals of the more potent part of 
the emp'ircj and they have spared no wicked 
pains, under insidious pretexts, to subvert what 
they dared not openly to attack, from the dread 
which they yet entertained ol the spirit of their 
ancient enemies. 

In this conspiracy we fell ; nor did we alone 
suffer, our country was deeply wounded. A 
number of (we will say) respectable individuals, 
largely engaged in trade, where we were not 
only useful, but absolutely necessary to our 
eountry in her dearest interests ; we, with all 
that was near and dear to us, were sacrificed 
without remorse, to the infernal deity of politi- 
cal expediency ! We fell to gratify the wishes 
of dark envy, and the views of unprincipled am- 
bition! Your foes. Sir, were avowed; were too 
brave to take an ungenerous advantage ; you 
fell in the face of day. — On the contrary, our 
enemies, to complete our overthrow, contrived 
to make their guilt appear the villany of a 
nation. — Your downfall only drags with you 
your private friends and partisans : , in our mi- 
sery are more or less involved the most nume- 
rous and most valuable part of the community 

-all those who immediately depend on the cul- 
tivation of the soil, from the landlord of a pro- 
vince, down to his lowest Innd. 

Allow us, Sir, yet further, just to hint at 
another rich vein of comfoi-t in the dreary 
regions of adversity ; — the gratulations of an 
approving conscience. In a certain great assem- 
bly, of which yoa are a distinguished member, 
panegyrics on your private virtues have so often 
wounded your delicacy, that we shall not dis- 
tress you with anything on the subject. There 
is, however, one part of your public conduct 
which our feelings will not permit us to pass in 
silence : our gratitude must trespass on your 
modesty ; we mean, worthy Sir, your whole be- 
haviour to the Scots Distillers. — In evil hours, 
when obtrusive recollection presses bitterly on 
tne sense, let that. Sir, come like an healing 
angel, an"^. speak the peace to your soul which 
the ffor'd '«un neither give nor take away. 
^^ h*.Ye the honour to be. 
Sir, 
^ /^x sympathizing fellow-sufferers, 
And grateful humble servants, 

John Barlbycokn — Praeses. 



TO THE HON. PROVOST, EA.IL1ES, AND 
TOWN COUNCIL OF DUMFRIES. 

[The Provost t,nd .dailies complitsd at on. e with th« 
modest req'tesit of the poet : both Jackson anc Staig, who 
were heaon of the town by turns, were men of taste ae^ 
feeling.] 

Gentlemen, 

The literary taste and liberal spirit of youf 
good town has so ably filled the various depart- 
ments of your schools, as to make it a very 
great object for a parent to have his children 
educated in them. Still, to me, a stranger, 
with my large family, and very stinted income, 
to give my young ones that education I wish, 
at the high school fees which a stranger pays, 
will bear hard upon me. 

Some years ago your good town did me the 
honour of making me an honorary burgess. — 
Will you allow me to request that this mark of 
distinction may extend so far, as to put me on 
a footing of a real freeman of the town, in the 
schools ? 

If you are so very kind as to grant my re- 
quest, it will certainly be a constant incentive 
to me to strain every nerve where I can officially 
serve you ; and willp if possible, increase that 
grateful respect with which I have the honour 
to be, 

Gentlemen, 
Your devoted humble servant, 

R. B. 



cccxxvni. 

TO MRS. RIDDEL. 

[Mrs. Riddel was, like Burns, a well-wisher to the 
great cause of human liberty and lamented with him ths 
excesses of the French Revolution ] 

Dumfries, 20fA January, 1796. 

I CANNOT express my gratitude to you, f( r 
allowing me a longer perusal of " Anacharsis." 
In fact, I never met with a book that bewitched 
me so much ; and I, as a member of the library, 
must warmly feel the obligation you have laid 
us under. Indeed to me the obligation ia 
stronger than to any other individual of our 
society; as "Anacharsis" is an indispensable 
desideratum to a son of the muses. 

The health you wished me in your morning's 
card, is, I think, flown from me for ever. 1 



OF ROBERT BURNS. 



497 



have not been able to leave my bed to-day till 
about an hour ago. These wickedly unlucky 
advertisements I lent (I did wrong) to a friend, 
and I am ill able to go in quest of him. 

The muses have not quite forsaken me. The 
following detached stanza I intend to interweave 
In some disastrous tale of a shepherd. 

R. B. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

I^it seems that Mrs. Dunlop regarded the conduct of 
Burns, for some months, with displeasure, and withheld 
«r delayed her usual kind and charming communica- 
tions.] 

Dumfries, Zlst January, 1796. 
These many months you have been two 
' packets in my debt — what sin of ignorance I 
have committed against so highly-valued a friend 
I am utterly at a loss to guess. Alas ! Madam, 
ill can I afford, at this time, to be deprived o' 
any of the small remnant of my pleasures. I 
have lately drunk deep in the cup of affliction. 
The autumn robbed me of my only daughter 
and darling child, and that at a distance too, 
and so rapidly, as to put it out of my power to 
Day the last duties to her. I had scarcely be- 
gun to recover from that shock, when I became 
myself the victim of a most severe rheumatic 
fever, and long the die spun doubtful ; until, 
after many weeks of a sick bed, it seems to 
have turned up life, and I am beginning to crawl 
across my room, and once indeed have been be- 
fore my own door in the street. 

"When pleasure fascinates the mental sight, 
Affliction purifies the visual ray. 
Religion hails the drea'r, the untried night. 
And shuts, for ever shuts ! life's doubtful day " 

R. B. 



CCCXXX 

TO MR. THOMSON. 

[Cromek informed me, on the authority of Mrs. Burns, 
•hat the "handsome, elegant present" mentioned in this 
letter, was a common worsted shawl.] 

February, 1796. 
Many thanks, my dear Sir, for your hand- 
lomc, elegant present to Mrs. Burns, and for 

1 Song CCLXVI. 



my remaining volume of P. Pindar. Peter is s 
delightful fellow, and a first favourite of mine 
I am much pleased with your idea of publishing 
a collection of our songs in octavo, with etchings. 
I am extremely willing to lend every assistance 
in my power. The Irish airs I shall cherrfully 
undertake the task of finding verses for. 

I have already, you know, equipt three witik 
words, and the other day I strung up a kind of 
rhapsody to another Hibernian melody, which 
I admire much. 

Awa' wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms.' 

If this will do, you have now four of my Irish 
engagement. In my by-past songs I dislike 
one thing, the name Chloris — I meant it as the 
fictitious name of a certain lady : but, on second 
thoughts, it is a high incongruity to have a 
Greek appellation to a Scottish pastoral ballad. 
Of this, and some things else, in my next : I 
have more amendments to propose. What you 
once mentioned of *' flaxen locks" is just : they 
cannot enter into an elegant description of 
beauty. Of this also again — God bless you !* ' 

R. B 



TO MR. THOMSON. 

[It is se/aom that painting speaks in the spirit of poetr> 
Burns perceived some of the blemishes of Allan's illus 
trations : but at that time little nature and less elegance 
entered into th" "rabellishments of books.] 

April, 1796. 

Alas ! my dear Thomson, I fear it will be 
some time ere I tune my lyre again ! " By 
Babel streams I have sat and wept" almost ever 
since I wrote you last ; I have only known ex- 
istence by the pressure of the heavy hand of 
sickness, and have counted time by the reper- 
cussions of pain ! Rheumatism, cold, and fevci 
have formed to me a terrible combination. I 
close my eyes in misery, and open them without 
hope. I look on the vernal day, and say witk 
poor Fergusson, 

" Say, wherefore has an all-indulgent heaven 
Light to the comfortless and wretched given ?» 

. This will be delivered to you by Mrs. Hyslop, 
landlady of the Globe Tavern here, which for 
these many years has been my howff, and where 



2 Our poet never explained what name he wonid hav« 
substituted for Chloris.— Mr. Thomson. 



498 



GENLxixil CORKESPONDENCE 



xinr friend Clarke and I have had many a merry 
squeeze. I am highly delighted with Mr. 
Allan's etchings. " Woo'd an' married an' a'," 
is admirable ! The grouping is beyond all 
praise. The expression of the figures, conform- 
able to tlie story in the ballad, is absolutely 
faultless perfection. I next admire " Turnim- 
si'ika." What I like least is "Jenny said to 
.Tock?7 ' Besides the female being in her ap- 
pearance * * * *j if you take her stooping into 
the account, she is at least two. inches taller 
than her lover. Poor Cleghorn ! I sincerely 
sympathize with him. Happy I am to think 
that he yet has a well-grounded hope of health 
and enjoyment in this world. As for me — but 
that is a sad subject. R. B. 



TO MR. THOMSON. 

[The genius of the poet triumphed over pain and want, 
-his last songs are as tender and as true as any of his 
early compositions.] 

My pear Sir, 
I ONCE llJentio^ed to you an air which I have 
long admired^^" Heme's a health to them that's 
awa, hiney," but I forget if you took any notice 
of it. I have just beep trying to suit it with 
verses, and I beg leave to recommend the air to 
your attention once more. I have only begun 
it. 

[Here follow the first three stanzas of the sopg, be- 
ginning, 

Here's a health to ane I loe dear ;' 
(h« fourth was found among the poet's MSS. after his 
itoath] 

R. B. 



TO MR. THOMSON. 

(."O-ia lewars, whom the poet introduces to Thomson, 
mm » i ather gauger, and a kind, warm-hearted gentle- 
auin JMsie Lewars was his sister, aind at this time but 
A '■at teens 

This will be delivered by Mr. Lewars, a 
young fellow of uncommon merit. As he will 
be a day or two in town, you will have leisure, 
!f you choose, fo write me by him : and if you 



%}pg CCLXVII. 



have a spare half-hour to spend with him, 1 
shall place your kindness to my a' ;ount. 1 
have no copies of the songs I have sent you, 
and I have taken a fancy tc review them all, 
and possibly may mend some of them ; so when 
you have complete leisure, I will thank you foi 
either the originals or copies.^ I had rather b* 
the author of five well-written songs than of tea 
otherwise. I have great hopes that the genial 
influence of the approaching summer will sel 
me to rights, but as yet I cannot boast of re- 
turning health. I have now reason to believa 
that my complaint is a flying gout — a sad buei- 
ness ! 

Do let me know how Cleghorn is, and remiBi- 
ber me to him. 

This should have been delivered to you a 
month ago. I am still very poorly, but should 
like much to hear from you. 

R 7i. 



CCCXXXIV. 

TO MRS. RIDDEL, 

Who had desired him to go to the Birth- Day 4s- 
sembly on that day to show his loyalty. 

[This is the last letter which the poet wrote to thii 
accomplished lady.] 

Dumfries, 4th June, 179G. 

I AM in such miserable health as to be utterly 
incapable of showing my loyalty in any way. 
Rackt as I am with rheumatisms, I meet every 
face with a greeting like that of Balak to Ba- 
laam — " Come, curse me Jacob ; and come, defy 
me Israel!" So say I — Come, curse me that 
east wind ; and come, defy me the north ! Would 
you have me in such circumstances copy you 
out a love-song ? 

I may perhaps see you on Saturday, liut I 
will not be at the ball. — Why should I? "man 
delights not me, nor woman either !" Can yon 
supply me with the song, " Let us all be un- 
happy together ?" -do if you can, and oblige, 
lepauvre miserable R. B. 



2 " It is needless to say that this reyisal Bnras did IMW 
live to perform." — Cur^ib. 



OF ROBERT BUPtNb. 



491 



cccxxxv. 
TO MR. CLARKE, 

SCHOOLMASTER, FORFAR. 

[Who \rill say, after reading the following distressing 
eUBT; lately oome to light, that Burns did not die in 
|r«<at pcve ;y ] 

Dumfries, 26t.h June, 1796. 
My peae Clarke, 

SriLL, still t le victim of affliction ! Were you 
\3 see the emaciated figure -who now holds the 
pen to you, you would not know your old friend. 
Whether I shall ever get about again, is only 
known to Him, th( Great Unknown, whose crea- 
ture I am. Alas, Clarke ! I begin to fear the 
worst. 

As to my iniividual self, I am tranquil, and 
would despise myself, if I were not ; but Burns's 
poor widow, and half-a-dozen of his dear little 
ones — helpless orphans ! — there I am weak as a 
woman's tear. Enough of this ! 'Tis half of my 
disease. 

I duly received your last, enclosing the note. 
It came extremely in time, and I am much 
obliged by your punctuality. Again I must 
request you to do me the same kindness. Be 
BO very good, as, by return of post, to enclose 
me another note. I trust you can do it without 
'nconvenience, and it will seriously oblige me. 
[f I must go, I shall leave a few friends behind 
Tie, whom I shall regret while consciousness 
remains. I know I shall live in their remem- 
brance. Adieu, dear Clarke. That I shall ever 
see you again, is, I am afraid, highly improba- 
ble. * R. B.- 



CCCXXXVI. 
TO MR. JAMES JOHNSON, 

EDINBURGH. 

[" Je this humble and delicate manner did poor Burns 
ask for a copy of a work of which he was principally the 
founder, and to which he had contributed gratuitously 
no", lej? than one hundred and eighty-four original, 
tltyei and collected songs ! The editor has seen one 
Dundred and eighty transcribed by his own hand, for the 
'Museum.'" — Cromek. Will it be believed that this 
♦hurriDle request" of Burns was not complied with! 
The work was intended as a present to Jessie Lewars.] 

Dumfries, ith July, 1796. 

How are you, my dear friend, and how comes 

on your f fth volume ? You may probably think 

that for some time past I hsive neglected you 

»nd youT work ; but, alas ! the hand of-pain, and 



sorrow, and care, has these many months lain 
heavy on me! Personal and domestic affliction 
have almost entirely banished that alacrity and 
life with which I used to woo the rural muse of 
Scotia. In the meantime let us finish what w© 
have so well begun. 

* * * * 

You are a good, worthy, honest fellow, and 
have a good right to live in this world — becaus* 
you deserve it. Many a merry meeting thia 
publication has given us, and possibly it may 
give us more, though, alas ! I fear it. This pro- 
tracting, slow, consuming illness which hanga 
over me, will, I doubt much, my ever dear 
friend, arrest my sun before he has well reached 
his middle career, and will turn over the poet 
to other and far more important concerns than 
studying the brilliancy of wit, or the pathos of 
sentiment ! However, hope is the cordial of the 
human heart, and I endeavour to cherish it aa 
well as I can. 

Let me hear from jon as scon as convenient. 
— Your work is a great one ; and now that it ia 
finished, I see, if we were to begin again, two 
or three things that might be mended ; yet I 
will venture to prophesy, that to future ages 
your publication will be the text-book anJ 
standard of Scottish song and music. 

I am ashamed to ask another favour of you, 
because you have been so very good already ; 
but my wife has a very particular friend of hers, 
a young lady who sings well, to whom she 
wishes to present the " Scots Musical Museum." 
If you have a spare copy, will you be so oblig- 
ing as to send it by the very first fly, as I am 
anxious to have it soon. 

The gentleman, Mr. Lewars, a particulai 
friend of mine, will bring out any proofs (if 
they are ready) or any message you may have. 
I am extremely anxious for your work, as in- 
deed I am for everything concerning you, and 
your welfare. 

Farewell, R. B. 

P. S. You should have had this when Mr, 
Lewars called on you, but his saddle-bags mia- 
carried. 



CCCXXXVII. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

[Few of the last requests of the poet were eS%( tual : 

Clarke, it is believed, did not send the second note h« 

I wrote for : Johnson did not send the copy of the Museu« 



jOO 



GENERAL COREESPONDENCE 



whi«h he requested, and thfl Commissioners of Excise 
'efum A the continuance of his full salary.] 

Brow, Sea-bathing quarters, 1th July, 1796. 
My DEAK Cunningham, 

I RMuJtiVED yours here tliis moment, and am 
mdeed niglily flattered with the approbation of 
the li«oi-ary circle you mention ; a literary 
circle inferior to none in the two kingdoms. 
Alas ! hiy friend, I fear the voice of the bard 
will sobA be heard among you no more! For 
these eight or ten months I have been ailing, 
Bometimes bedfast and sometimes not ; but these 
last three months I have been tortured with an 
excruciating rheumatism, which has reduced 
me to nearly the last stagie. You actually would 
not know me if you saw me — Pale, emaciated, 
and so feeble, as occasionally to need help from 
my chair-^my spirits fled ! fled I but I can no 
more on the subject — only the medical folks tell 
me that my last only chance is bathing and 
country-quarters, and riding. — The deuce of the 
matter is this ; when an exciseman is off duty, 
his salary is reduced to 35Z. instead of 50^. — 
What way, in the name of thrift, shall I main- 
tain myself, and keep a horse in country quar- 
ters — with a wife and five children at home, on 
35Z. ? I mention this, because I had intended to 
beg your utmost interest, and that of all the 
friends you can muster, to move our commis- 
sioners of excise to grant me the fuH salary; I 
dare say you know them all personally. If they 
do not grant it me, I must lay my account with 
an exit truly en poete — if I die not of disease, 
I must perish with hunger. 

I have sent you one of the songs ; the other 
my memory does not serve me with, and I have 
no copy here ; but I shall be at home soon, when 
I will send it you. — Apropos to being at home, 
Mrs. Burns threatens, in a week or two, to add 
one more to my paternal charge, which, if of 
the right gender, I intend shall be introduced 
to the world by the respectable designation of 
Alexander Cunningham Burns. My last was 
lames Glencairn, so you can have no objection 
to the company of nobility. Farewell. 

R. B. 



ccoxxxvin. 

TO MR. GILBERT BURNS. 

[This lett»r contained heavy news for Gilbert Burns : 
the loss of a brother whom he dearly loved and admired, 
i^as not all, < -lUgh the worst.] 



lOM July, 1796. 
Deak Brother, 
It will be no very pleasing news to you to b«i 
told that I .am dangerously ill, and not likely.stc 
get better. An inveterate rheumatism has re 
duced me to such a state of debility, and my 
appetite is so totally gone, that I can scarcely 
stand on my legs. I have been a week at sea- 
bathing, and I will continue there, or in a 
friend's house in the country, all the summer 
God keep my wife and children : if I am taken 
from their head, they will be poor indfeeJ. I 
have contracted one or two serious debts, partly 
from my illness these many months, partly from 
too much thoughtlessness as to expense, when 
I came to town, that will cut in too much on the 
little I leave them in your hands. Remember 
me to my mother. 

Yours, R. B 



CCCXXXIX. 



TO MR. JAMES ARMOUR, 

MASON, MAUCHLINB. 

[The original letter is now in a safe sanctuary, the 
hands of the poet's son, Major James Glencairn Buriis.l 

July 10th [1796.] 
For Heaven's sake, and as you value the 
we[l]fare of your daughter and my wife, do, 
my dearest Sir, write to Fife, to Mrs. Armour 
to come if possible. My wife thinks she can 
yet reckon upon a fortnight. The medical people 
order me, as I value my existence, to fly to sea- 
bathing and country-quarters, so it is ten thou- 
sand chances to one that I shall not be within 
a dozen miles of her when her hour comes. 
What a situation for her, poor girl, without a 
single friendby her on such a serious moment. 
I have now been a week at salt-water, and 
though I think I have got some good by it, yet 
I have some secret fears that this business wiU 
be dangerous if not fatal. 

Your most affectionate son, 
R. B. 



CCCXL. 
TO MRS. BURNS. 



[Sea-bathing, I have heard skilful men say, was inju- 
dicious : but it was felt that Burns wa« on his way to th« 




gravo, and as he desired to try the influence o; sea-waterj 
M well as sea-dir, l)is wishes were not opposed.] 

Lrow, Thursday. 
Mt dearest Love, 
I DELATED Writing until I could tell you what 
effect sea-bathing was likely to produce. It 
would be injustice to deny that it has eased my 
pains, and I think has strengthened me ; but 
my appetite is still extremely bad. No flesh 
nor fish -can I swallow : porridge and milk are 
the only things I can taste. I am very happy 
to hear, by Miss Jess Lewars, that you are all 
well. My very best and kindest compliments 
to her, and to all the children. I will see you 
on Sunday. 

Your affectionate husband, 

R. B. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

[" The poet had the pleasure of receiving a satisfac- 
tory explanation of this lady's silence," says Currie, 
" and an assurance of the continuance of her friendship 
to bis widow and children."] 

Brow, Saturday, '12th July, 1796. 
Madam, 
I hate written you so often, without receiv- 
ing any answer, that I would not trouble you 
again, but for the circumstances in which I am. 
An illness which has long hung about me, in all 
probability will speedily send me beyond that 
bourn whence no traveller returns. Your friend-: 
ship, with which for many years you honoured 
me, was a friendship, dearest to my soul. Your 
conversation, and especially your correspon- 
dence, were at once highly entertaining and in- 
structive. With what pleasure did I use to 
break up the seal ! The remembrance yet adds 
one pulse more to my poor palpitating heart. 
Farewell ! ! ! 

R. B. 



CCCXLII. 

T MR. THOMSO'N. 

[Thomson instantly complied with the dying poet's 
equest, and transmitted the exact sum which he re- 
quested, viz. five pounds, by return of post: he was 
i.raid of offending the pride of Burns, otherwise he 
leould, he says, have sent a larger sum. He has not, 
lowAver, t''>l us ii'-w much 'le sent to the all but deso- 



late widow and children, when death had released Ls« 
from all dread of the poet's indignation.] 

Broiv, on the Solway-firth, 12th July, 1796. 
After all my boasted independence, cursi 
necessity compels me to implore you for five 
pouiids. A cruel wretch of a haberdasher, tc 
whom I owe an account, taking it into lis heael 
that I am dying, has commenced a procesB) 
and will infallibly put me into jail. Do, foJ 
God's sake, send me that sum, and that by re- 
turn of post. Forgive me this earnestness, but 
the horrors of a jail have made me half dis- 
tracted. I do not ask all this gratuitously ; 
for, upon returning health, I hereby promise 
and engage to furnish you with five pounds' 
worth of the neatest song-genius you have seen 
I tried my hand on " Rothemurche" this morn 
ing. The measure is so difficult that it is im- 
possible to infuse much genius into tli e lines ; 
they are on, the other side. Forgive, forgiv* 



Fairest maid on Devon's banks.' 



R. B 



TO MR. JAMES BUENESS, 

WRITER, MONTROSE. 

[The good, the warm-hearted James Burness sent his 
cousin ten pounds on the 29th of July— he sent five pounds 
afterwards to the family, and offered to take one of the 
boys, and educate him in his own firpfessionof awriter 
All this was unknown to the world till lately.] 

Brow, 12th July. 
My dear Cousin, 
When you offered me money assistance, little 
did I think I should want it so soon. A rasca* 
of a haberdasher, to whom I owe a considerable 
bill, taking it into his head that I am dying, has 
commenced process against me, and will infalli- 
bly put my emaciated body into jail. "Will you 
be so good as to accommodate me, and that bj 
return of post, with ten pounds ? James ! did 
you know the pride of my heart, you would feel 
doubly for me ! Alas ! I am not use'J tc beg ! 
The worst of it is, my health was coming about 
finely ; you know, and my physician assured me, 
that melancholy and low spirits are half my dis 
ease; guess then my horrors since this business 
began. If I had it settled, I would be, I think, 
quite well in a manner. How shall I use th« 

1 Sona CCLXVIII 



502 



REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 



language to you, do not disappoint me ! but 
strong necessity's curst command. j 

I have been thinking over and over my bro- 
ther's affairs, and I fear I must cut him up ; but i 
on this I will correspond at another time, par- 
ticularly as I shall [require] your advice. • 

Forgive me for once more mentioning by 
return of post ; — save me from the horrors of a 
jail! 

My compliments to my friend James, and to 
all the rest. I do not know what I have writ- 
ten. The subject is so horrible I dare not look 
it over again. 

Farewell. 

R. B. 



CCCXLIV. ■ » 

TO JAMES aRACIE, ESQ. 

f James Graoie was, for some time, a banker in Dum 
fries: his eldest son, a fine, high-spirited youth, fell by 
a rifle-ball in America, when leading the troops to th« 
attack on Washington.] ,•■ 

Brow, Wednesday Morning, IQth July, 1796. 
My dear Sib, 
It would [be] doing high injustice to this 
place not to acknowledge that my rheumatisms 
have derived great benefits from it already ; 
but alas ! my loss of appetite still continues. I 
shall not need your kind offer this week, and I 
return to town the beginning of next week, it 
not being a tide-week. I am detaining a man 
in a burning hurry. 

So God bless you. E. B. 



EEMAEKS 



SCOTTISH SONGS AND BALLADS. 



[The following Strictures on Scottish Song exist in the handwriting of Burns, m the interleaved copy of Johnson's 
Musical Museum, w^hich the poet presented to Captain Riddel, of Friar's Carse ; on the death of Mrs. Riddel, these 
precious volumes passed into the hands of her niece, Eliza Bayley, of Manchester, who kindly permitted Mr. Cromek 
to transcribe and publish them in the Reliques.] 



THE HIGHLAND QUEEN. 
This Highland Queen, music and poetry, was 
composed by Mr. M'Vicar, purser of the Sole- 
bay man-of-war. — This I had from Dr. Black- 
lock. 



BESS THE GAWKIE. 
This song shows that the Scottish muses did 
ftot all leave us when we lost Ramsay and Os- 
wald, as I have good reason to believe that the 
rerses and music are both posterior to the days 
of these two gentlemen. It is a beautiful song, 
and in the genuine Scots taste. We have few 
oastoral compositions, I mean the pastoral of 
nature, thai; are equal to this. 



OH, OPEN THE DOOR, LORD GREGORY. 
It is somewhat singular, that in Lanark, Ren- 
frew, Ayr, Wigton, Kirkcudbright, and Dum- 
fries-shires, there is scarcely an old song or 
tune which, from the title, &c.. ?an be guessed 
to belong to, or be the production of these 
countries. This, I conjecture, is one of these 
very few; as the ballad, which is a long one, 
is called, both by tradition and in printed col- 
lections, " The Lass of Lochroyan," which I 
take to be Lochroyan, in Galloway. 



THE BANKS OP THE TWEED. 

This song is one of the many attempts that 

English composers have made to imitate the 

Scottish manner, and which I shall, in thes« 

strictures, beg leave to distinguish by the ao 



KEMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 



50d 



|.ellation of ^biglo-Scottisb productions. The 
music is pretty good, but the verses are just 
»bove contempt. 



'HE BEDS OP SWEET ROSES. 
TKk) song as far as I know, for the first time 
ftppearf here in print. — When I was a boy, it 
ras ?. very popular song in Ayrshire. I re- 
aaeLiwer to have heard those fanatics, the Bu- 
thanites, sing some of their nonsensical rhymes, 
vrhich they dignify with the name of hymns, to 
this air. 



ROSLIN CASTLE. 
These beautiful verses were the production 
of a Richard Hew't, a young man that Dr. 
Blacklock, to whom I am indebted for the anec- 
f'ote >ep* ^or some vf>arp j^s a" amaruer>«i8. T 
do not know who is the author of the second 
Bong to the tune. Tytler, in his amusing his- 
tory of Scots music, gives the air to Oswald ; 
but in Oswald's own collection of Scots tunes, 
where he affixes an asterisk to those he himself 
composed, he does not make the least claim to 
the tune. 



SAW YE JOHNNIE CUMMIN ? QUO' SHE. 
This song, for genuine humour in the verses, 
and lively originality in the air, is unparalleled. 
I take it to be very old. 



CLOUT THE CALDRON. 
A TRADITION is mentioned in the "Bee," that 
the second Bishop Chisholm, of Dunblane, used 
to say, that if he were going to be hanged, 
nothing would soothe his mind so much by the 
way as to hear " Clout the Caldron" played. 

I feave met with another tradition, that the 
old song to iais tune, 

" Hae ye onie pots or pans, 
Or onie broken chanters," 

was composed on one of the Kenmure family, in 
the cavalier times ; and alluded to an amour he 
had, while under hiding, in the disguise of an 
itinerant tinker. The air is also known by the 
Siame of 

" The blacksmith and his apron," 
nrhich from the rhythm, seems to have been a 
ine of some old song to the tune. 



SAW YE MY PEGGY. 
This charming song is much older, and in 
deed superior to Ramsay's verses, " The Toast,' 
as he calls them. There is aaother set of th* 
words, much older still, and which I take to bt 
the original one, but though it has a very great 
deal of merit, it is not quite ladies' reading. 

The original words, for thoy can scarcely in 
called verses, seem to be as follows ; a song f» 
miliar from the cradle to every Scottish ear. 
" Saw ye my Maggie, 
Saw ye my Maggie, 
Saw ye my Maggie 

Linkin o'er the lea? 

High kilted was she, 
High kilted was she, 
High kilted was she, 

Her coat aboon her knee 

What mark has your Maggi», 
Whrt Tnar'' Has "ovr IVno-gie 
Whai mark uas your Maggie, 

That ana may ken her be ?'• 

Though it by no means follows that the silliest 
verses to an air must, for that reason, be the 
original song; yet I take this ballad, of which 
I have quoted part, to be old verses. The two 
songs in Ramsay, one of them evidently his own, 
are never to be met with in the fire-side circle 
of our peasantry ; while that which I take to 
be the old song, is in every shepherd's mouth. 
Ramsay, I suppose, had thought the old ver«oa 
unworthy of a place in his collection. 



THE ELOWERS OF EDINBURGH. 

This song is one of the many effusions of 
I Scots Jacobitism. — The title " Flowers of Edin- 
burgh," has no manner of connexion with the 
present verses, so I suspect there has been aa 
older set of words, of which the title is all that 
remains. 

By the bye, it is singular enough that ths 
Scottish muses were all Jacobites. — I have paid 
more attention to every description of Scots 
songs than perhaps anybody living has done, 
and I do not recollect one single stanza, or even 
the title of the most trifling Scots air, which has 
the least panegyrical reference to the familiea 
of Nassau or Brunswick ; while there are hun- 
dreds satirizing them. — This may be thought no 
panegyric on the Scots Poets, but I mean it as 
such. For myself, I would always take it as a 
compliment to have it said, that my heart ran 
before my head. — and surely the gallant thoucli 



504 



REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 



anfcrtunat* house of Stewart, the kings of our 
fathers for so many heroic ages, is a theme * 



JAMIE GAY. 
Jamie Gat is another and a tolerable Anglo- 
itiottieb piece. 



MY DEAR JOCKIE. 
Another Anglo-Scottish production. 



FYE, GAE RUB HER O'ER WI' STRAE. 
It is self-evident that the first four lines of 
this song are part of a song more ancient than 
Ramsay's beautiful verses which are annexed 
to them. As music is the language of nature ; 
and poetry, particularly songs, are always less 
or more localized (if I may be allowed the verb) 
by some of the modifications of time and place, 
this is the reason why so many of our Scots 
airs have outlived their original, and perhaps 
many subsequent sets of verses ; except a single 
name or phrase, or sometimes one or two lines, 
simply to distinguish the tunes by. 

To this day among people who know nothing 
of Ramsay's verses, the following is the song, 
and all the song that ever I heard : 
" Urin ye meet a bonnie lassie, 

Gie her a kiss and let her g-ae ; 
But gin ye meet a dirty hizzie, 

Fye, gae rub her o'er wi' strae. 

Fye, gae rub her, rub her, rub her, 

Fye, gae rub her o'er wi' strae : 

A.n' gin ye meet a dirty hizzie, 

Fye, gae rub her o'er wi' strae." 



THE LASS 0' LIVISTON. 
The old song, in three eight-line stanzas, is 
v^ell known, and has merit as to wit and 
humour; but it is rather unfit for insertion. — 



U begins, 



The Bonnie lass o' Liviston, 

Her name ye ken, her name ye ken. 

And she has written in her contract 

To lie her lane, to lie her lane." 

&c. &c. 



THE lAST TIME I CAME O'ER THE MOOR. 
Ramsay found the first line of this song, which 



air, and then composed the rest of the verses tc 

suit that line. This has always a finer eflfecl 
than composing English words, or words with an 
idea foreign to the spirit of the old title. Where 
old titles of songs convey any idea at all, it will 
generally be found to te quite in the spirit of 
the air. 



JOCKIE 'S GRAY BREEKS, 
Though this has certainly every evidence c£ 
being a Scottish air, yet there is a well-known 
tune and song in the north of Ireland, called 
" The Weaver and his Shuttle 0," which, though 
sung much quicker, is every note the very tune. 



THE HAPPY MARRIAGE. 
Anothee, but very pretty Anglo-ScottisJi 
piece. 



THE LASS OF PATIE'S MILL. 
In Sinclair's Statistical Account of Scotland, 
this song is localized (a verb I must use for 
want of another to express my idea) somewhere 
in the north of Scotland, and likewise is claimed 
by Ayrshire. — The following anecdote I had 
from the present Sir William Cunningham, of 
Robertland, who had it from the last John, Earl 
of Loudon. The then Earl of Lt)udon, and father 
to Earl John before mentioned, had Ramsay at 
Loudon, and one day walking together by the 
banks of Irvine water, near New-Mills, at a 
place called Patie's Mill, they were struck with 
the appearance of a beautiful country girl. His 
lordship observed that she would be a fine theme 
for a song. — Allan lagged behind in returning 
to Loudon Castle, and at dinner produced this 
identical song. 



THE TURNIMSPIKE. 
There is a stanza of this excellent song for 
local humour, omitted in this set. — Where I 
have placed the asterisms. . 

" They tak the horse then by te head 
And tere tey mak her stan', man; 
Me tell tern, me hae seen te day, 
Tfv no had sic comman', man.» 



HIGHLAND LADDIE. 
As this was a favourite theme with our later 



A«d been preserved as the title of the charming , Scottish muses, there are several airs 8Jid songi 



REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 



501 



of that name. That which I take to be the old- 
est, is to be found in the " Musical Museum," 
beginning, " I hae been at Crookie-den." One 
reason for my thinking so is, that Oswald has 
it in his collection, by the name of " The Auld 
Highland^ Laddie." It is also known by the 
name of " Jinglan Johnie," which is a well- 
known song of four or five stanzas, and seems 
XC be an earlier song than Jacobite times. As 
a proof of this, it is little known to the pea- 
santry by the name of " Highland Laddie ;" 
while everybody knows "Jinglan Johnie." The 
Bong begins 

" Jinglan John, the meickle man, 

He met wi' a lass was blythe and borne." 

Another "Highland Laddie" is also in the 
"Museum," vol. v., which I take to be Ram- 
say's original, as he has borrowed the chorus— 
"0 my bonie Highland lad," &c. It consists 
of three stanzas, besides the chorus ; and has 
humour in its composition — it is an excellent, 
but somewhat licentious song. — It begins 

"As I cam o'er Cairney mount, 
And down among the blooming heather." 

This air, and the common " Highland Laddie," 
Beem only to be different sets. 

Another " Highland Laddie," also in the 
«' Museum," vol. v., is the tune of several Jaco- 
bite fragments. One of these old songs to it, 
only exists, as far as I know, in these four 
lines — 

" Where hae ye been a' day, 

Bonie laddie, Highland laddie ? 
Down the back o' Bell's brae, 

Courtin Maggie, courtin Maggie." 

Another of this name is Dr. Arne's beautiful 
air, called the new " Highland Laddie." 



THE GENTLE SWAIN. 
Tr sing such a beautiful air to such exe- 
orable versus, is downright prostitution of com- 
mon sense ! The Scots verses indeed are tole- 
rable. 



HE Sl^LE MY TENDER HEART AWAY. 
This is an Anglo-Scottish production, but by 
110 means a ba<j one. 



FAIREST OP THE FAIR. 
It is too barefaced to take Dr. Percy's charm- 
ing song, and by means of transposing a fei* 
English words into Scots, to offer to pass it fo< 
a Scots song. — I was not acquainted with th« 
editor until the first volume was nearly finished, 
else, had I known in time, I would have pra 
vented such an impudent absurdity. 



THE BLAITHRIE O'T. 
The following is a set of this song, which was 
the earliest song I remember to have got by 
heart. When a child, an old woman sung it to 
me, and I picked it up, every word, at first 
hearing. 

" O Willy, weel I mind, I lent you my hand 
To sing you a song which you did me command j 
But my memory's so bad I had almost forgot 
That you called it the gear and theblaithrie o't. ■ 

I'll not sing about confusion, delusion or pride, 
I'll sing about a laddie was for a virtuous bride , 
For virtue is an ornament that time will never rot, 
And preferable to gear and the blaithrie o't. — 

Tho' my lassie hae aae scarlets or silks to put on, 
We envy not the greatest that sits upon the throne ) 
I wad rather hae my lassie, tho' she cam in her smocki 
Than a princess wi' the gear and the blaithrie o't.— 

Tho' we hae nae horses or menzies at command, 
We will toil on our foot, and we'll work wi' our hand; 
And when wearied without rest, we'll find it sweet iq 

any spot. 
And we'll value not the gear and the blaithrie o't.— 

If we hae ony babies, we'll count them as lent ; 
Hae we less, hae we mair, we will ay be content ; 
For they say they hae mait ple'asure that wins bu 

groat. 
Than the miser wi' his gear and the blaithrie o't. — 

I'll not meddle wi' th' affairs of the kirk or the queen 
They're nae matters for a sang, let them sink, let theoj 

swim; 
On your kirk I'll ne'er encroach, but I'll hold it st-l 

remote, 
Sae tak this for the gear and the blaitirie o't." 



MAY EVE, OR KATE OF ABERDEEN. 
" Kate of Aberdeen" is, I believe, the work 
of poor Cunningham the player ; of whom tho 
following anecdote, though told before, deserves 
a recital. A fat dignitary of the church com- 
ing past Cunningham one Sunday, as the peon 
poet was busy plying a fishing-rod in soma 
stream near Durham, his native country, his 
reverence reprimanded Cunningham Tcry se 



506 



KEMAKKS ON SCOTTISH SONG 



eerely for such an occupation on such a day. 
The poor poet, with that inoffensive gentleness 
of manners which was his peculiar characteristic, 
replied, that he hoped God and his reverence 
would forgive his seeming ^profanity of that 
sacred day, "as he had no dinner to eat, but what 
lay at the bottom of that pool !" This, Mr. Woods, 
the player, who knew Cunningham well, and 
esteemed him much, assured me was true. 



TWEED SIDE. 

In Ramsay's Tea-table Miscellany, he tells us 
that about thirty of the songs in that i.ublica- 
tion were the works of some young gentlemen 
of his acquaintance ; which songs are marked 
with the letters D. C. &c. — Old Mr. Tytler of 
Woodhouselee, the worthy and able defender of 
the beauteous Queen of Scots, told me that the 

tjngi, -jar, .d C, ^n t_^j Tt.. tab.._, we^^ tht .^om 

position of a Mr. Crawfurd, of the house of 
Achnames, who was afterwards unfortunately 
drowned coming from France. — As Tytler was 
most intimately acquainted with Allan Ramsay, 
I think the anecdote may be depended on. Of 
consequence, the beautiful song of Tweed Side 
is Mr. Crawfurd's, and indeed does great honour 
to his poetical talents. He was a Robert Craw- 
furd ; the Mary he celebrates was a Mary 
Stewart, of the Castle-Milk family, afterwards 
married to a Mr. John Ritchie. 

I have seen a song, calling itself the original 
Tweed Side, and said to have been composed by 
a Lord Tester. It consisted of two stanzas, of 
which I still recollect the first — 

" When Maggy and I viras acquaint, 

I carried my noddle fu' hie; 
Nae lintwhite on a' the green plain, 

Nor gowrdspink sae happy as me : 
But I saw her eae fair and I lo'ed: 

I woo'd, but I came nae great speed j 
So now I maun w^ander abroad, 

And lay my banes far frae the Tweed." — 



THE POSY. 
It appears evident to me that Oswald com- 
posed his Roslin Castle on the modulation of this 
air. — In the second part of Oswald's, in the 
three first bars, he has either hit on a wonder- 
ful similarity to, or else he has entirely borrowed 
the three first bars of the old air ; and the 
close of both tunes is almost exactly the same. 
the old verses to which it was sung, when I 



took down the notes from a country girl s 
voice, had no great merit. — The following is « 
^ecimen : 

" There was a pretty May, and a milkin she went j 
\Vi' her red rosy cheeks, and her ?oal black hair ; 
And she has met a young man a comiu o'?r ►he bett, 
With a double and adieu to thee, fair May. 

O where are ye goin, my ain pretty May, 
Wi' thy red rosy cheeks, and thy coal black ha?i ? 

Unto the yowes a milkin, kind sir, she says. 
With a double and. adieu to thee, fair May. 

What if I gang alang with thee, my ain pretty May, 
Wi' thy red rosy cheeks, and thy coal-black hair; 

Wad I be aught the warse o' that, kind sir, she say* 
With a double and adieu to thee, fair May. 



MARY'S DREAM. 
The Mary here alluded to is generally sup- 
posed to be Miss Mary Macghie, daughter to 
th, xiaiiu of ..i..rdi., jx Uttilovay. ..he ^i jet ivaa 
a Mr. John Lowe, who likewise wrote another 
beautiful song, called Pompey's Ghost. — I have 
seen a poetic epistle from him in North America, 
where he now is, or lately was, to a lady in 
Scotland. — By the strain of the verses, it ap 
peared that they allude to some love affair. 



THE MAID THAT TENDS THE GOATS. 

BY MR. DUDGEON. 

This Dudgeon is a respectable farmer's son 
in Berwickshire. 



I WISH MY LOVE WERE IN A MIRE. 
I NEVER heard more of the words of this old 
song than the title. 



ALLAN WATER. 
This Allan Water, which the ccmposer of tha 
music has honoured with the name of the air, 1 
have been told is Allan Water, in Strathallan 



THERE'S NAE LUCK ABOUT THE HOUSE. 
This is one of the most beautiful songs in the 
Scots, or any other language. — The two lines, 

" And will I see his face .-jgain ! 
And will 1 hear him speak !" 

as well as the two preceding ones, are unequalled 
almost by anything I ever heard or read : and 
the lines. 



EEMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 



501 



" The piesent moment ia our ain, 
The neist we never saw," — 

ve worthy of the first poet. It is long posterior 
^.c Ramsay's days. About the year 1771, or 72, 
It came first on the streets as a ballad ; and I 
suppose the composition of the song was not 
much atUrior to that period. 



TARRY ,W00. 
This is a very pretty song ; but I fancy that 
the first half stanza, as well as the tune itself, 
are much older than the rest of the words. 



GRAMACHREB. 
The song of Gramachree was composed by a 
Mr. Poe, a counsellor at law in Dublin. This 
f.ner'^ jte lia^ '"roi * g^ "^'iei'^ii w' ' ki^'^tl^ 
lady, the " Molly," whc is «he subject of the 
Bong, and to whom Mr. Poe sent the first manu- 
script of his most beautiful verses. I do not 
remember any single line that has more true 
pathos than 

" How can she break that honest heart that wears her in 
its core!" 

But as the song is Irish, it had nothing to do 
in this collection. 



THE COLLIER'S BONNIE LASSIE. 
The first half stanza is much older than the 
lays of Ramsay. — The old words began thus : 

'• The collier has a dochter, and, O, she's wonder bonnie ! 
A laird he was that sought her, rich baith in lands 
and money. 
She wad na hae a laird, nor wad slie be a lady, 
But she wad .hae a collier, the colour o' her daddie." 



MY AIN KIND DEARIE— O. 
The old words of this song are omitted here, 
utiough much more beautiful than these in- 
serted; which were mostly composed by poor 
PerguHSon, in one of his merry humours. The 
eld wcrds began thus : 

" I'll rowe thee o'er the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie, O, 
I'll rowe thee o'er the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie, O. 
Altho' the night were ne'er sae wat. 

And I were ne'er sae weary, O ; 
I'll rowe thee o'er the lea-rig, 

xtfy ain kind dearie, O." — 



MARY SCOTT, THE FLOWER OP YARROW. 

Mr. Robertson, in his statistical account ol 
the parish of Selkirk, says, that Miuy Scott, 
the Flower of Yarrow, was descended from th« 
Dryhope, and married into the Harden family 
Her daughter was married to a predec(BSor of 
the present Sir Francis Elliot, of Stobcs, am? 
of the late Lord Heathfield. 

There is a circumstance in their contract oi 
marriage that merits attention, and it stronglj 
marks the predatory spirit of the times. The 
father-in-law agrees to keep his daughter for 
some time after the marriage ; for which the 
son-in-law binds himself to give him the profits 
of the first Michaelmas moon ! 



DOWN THE BURN. DAVIE. 
^ ha»e K,oen .iifoi^ed, *hax tht ^n, ol 
" Down the burn, Davie," was the composition 
of David Maigh, keeper of the blood slough 
hounds, belonging to the Laird of Riddel, in 
Tweeddale 



BLINK o'er THE BURN, SWEET BETTIE 
The old words, all that I remember, are 

"Blink over the burn, sweet Betty, 

It is a cauld winter night : 
It rains, it hails, it thunders, 

The moon she gies nae light: 
It's a' for the sake o' sweet Betty, 

That ever I tint my way; 
Sweet, let me lie beyond thee 

Until it be break o' day.— 

O, Betty will bake my bread. 

And Betty will brew my ale. 
And Betty will be my .ove. 

When I come over the dale : 
Blink over the burn, sweet Betty, 

Blink over the burn to me. 
And while I hae life, dear lassie. 

My ain sweet Betty thou's be." 



THE BLITHSOME BRIDAI. 
I FIND the " Blithsome Bridal" in Jame« 
Watson's collection of Scots poems, printed at 
Edinburgh, in 1706. This collection, the pub- 
lisher says, is the first of its nature which has 
been published in our own native Scots dialec« 
— it is now extremely scarce. 




b08 



REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 



JOHN HAT'S BONNIE LASSIE. 
JoHS Hat's " Bonnie Lassie" was daughter 
of Joha Hay, Earl or Marquis of Tweeddale, 
and late Countess Dowager of Roxburgh. — She 
died at Broomiands, near Kelso, some time be- 
tween the years 1720 and 1740. 



THE BONIE BRUCKET LASSIE. 
The two first lines of this song are all of it 
that is old. The rest of the song, as well as 
those songs in the Museum marked T., are the 
works of an obscure, tippling, but extraordinary 
body of the name of Tytler, commonly known 
by the name of Balloon Tytler, from his having 
projected a balloon ; a mortal, who, though he 
drudges about Edinburgh as a common printer, 
with leaky shoes, a sky-lighted hat, and knee- 
buckles as unlike as George-by-the-grace-of- 
God, and Solomon-the-son-of-David ; yet that 
same unknown drunken mortal is author and 
compiler of three-fourths of Elliot's pompous 
Encyclopedia Britannica, which he composed 
at half a guinea a week ! 



SAE MERRY AS WE TWA HA'E BEEN. 
This song is beautiful. — The chorus in parti- 
cular is truly pathetic. I never could learn 
anything of its author. 

CHORirS. 

" Sae merry as we twa ha'e been, 
Sae merry as we twa ha'e been ; 
My heart is like for to break, 
When I think on the days we ha'e seen." 



THE BANKS OE FORTH. 
This air is Oswald's. 



THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIR. 
This is another beautiful song of Mr. Craw- 
tard's composition In the neighbourhood of 
Traquair, tradition still shows the old " Bush ;" 
which, when I saw it, in the year 1787, was 
composed of eight or nine ragged birches. The 
Karl of Traquair has planted a clump of trees 
tear by, which he calls " The New Bush." 



CROMLET'S LILT. 

The following interesting account of thil 
plaintive dirge was communicated to Mr. Rid- 
del by Alexander Eraser Tytler, Esq., of Wood- 
houselee. 

" In the latter end of the sixteenth century, 
the Chisolms were proprietors of the estate of 
Cromlecks (now possessed by the Drummonds). 
The eldest son of that family was very muob 
attached to a daughter of Sterling of Ai'doch, 
commonly known by the name of Fair Helen of 
Ardoch. 

"At that time the opporiunities of meeting 
betwixt the sexes were more rare, consequently 
more sought after than now ; and the Scottish 
ladies, far from priding themselves on extensive 
literature, were thought sufl&cienily book-learned 
if they could make out the Sciiptures in their 
mother-tongue. Writing was entirely out of 
the line of female education. At that period 
the most of our young men of family sought a 
fortune, or found a grave, in France. Cromlus, 
when he went abroad to the war, was obliged 
to leave the management of his correspondence 
with his mistress to a lay-brother of the monas- 
tery of Dumblain, in the immediate neighbour- 
hood of Cromleck, and near Ardoch. This 
man, unfortunately, was deeply sensible of 
Helen's charms. He artfully prepossessed her 
with stories to the disadvantage of Cromlus ; 
and, by misinterpreting or keeping up the letters 
and messages intrusted to his care, he entirely 
irritated both. All connexion was broken off 
betwixt them; Helen was inconsolable, and 
Cromlus has left behind him, in the ballad 
called 'Cromlet's Lilt,' a proof of the elegance 
of his genius, as well as the steadiness of his 
love, 

" When the artful monk thought time had 
sufficiently softened Helen's soi-row, he pro- 
posed himself as a lover : Helen was obdurate : 
but at last, overcome by the persuasions of her 
brother, with whom she lived, and who, having 
a family of thirty-one children, was probably 
very well pleased to get her off his hands — sha 
submitted, rather than consented to the 3sre- 
mony ; but there her compliance ended ; and, 
when forcibly put into bed, she started quite 
frantic from it, screaming out, that after three 
gentle taps on the wainscot, at the bed-head, 
she heard Cromlus's voice, crying, 'Helen, 
Helen, mind me!' Cromlus soon after coming 
home, the treaonery of the confidant was dit 



REMAKES JN SCOTTISH SONG. 



5(f9 



covered, — her marriage disannulled, — and Helen 
became Lady Cromlecks." 

N. B. Marg. Murray, mother to these thirty- 
one children, was daughter to Murray of Strewn, 
one of the seventeen sons of Tullybardine, and 
wnose youngest son, commonly called the Tutor 
of Ardoch, died in the year 1715, aged 111 
Tears 



MY DEARIE, IP THOU DIE. 
A.NOTHER beautiful song of Crawfurd's. 



SHE ROSE AND LOOT ME IN. 

The old set of this song, which is still to be 
found in printed collections, is much prettier 
than this ; but somebody, I believe it was Ram- 
say, took it into his head to clear it of some 
seeming indelicacies, and made it at once more 
chaste and more dull. 



GO TO THE EWE-BUGHTS, MARION. 
I AM not sure if this old and charming air be 
of the South, as is commonly said, or of the 
North of Scotland. There is a song, apparently 
as ancient as "Ewe-bughts, Marion," which 
Bings to the same tune, and is evidently of the 
North. — It begins thus : 

" The Lord o' Gordon had three dochters, 
Mary, Marget, and Jean, 
They wad na stay at bonie Castle Gordon, 
But awa to Aberdeen." 



LEWIS GORDON. 
This air is a proof how one of our Scots tunes 
comes to be composed out of another. I have 
one of the earliest copies of the song, and it 
has prefixed, 

" Tune of Tarry Woo."— 
[>f which tune a different set has insensibly 
varied into a different air. — To a Scots critic, 
the pathos of tli e line, 

' Tho' his back be at the wa'," 
—must be very striking. It needs not a Ja- 
cobite nrejudice to be affected with this song. 

The supposed author of "Lewis Gordon" 
was a Mr. Geddes, priest, at Shenval, in the 
Ainzie. 



O HONE A RIE 
Dr. Blacklock informed me that this song wal 
composed on the infamous massacre of Glencoe. 



I'LL NEVER LEAVE THEE. 
This is another of Crawfm-d's songs, but 1 
do not think in his happiest manner. — What &% 
absurdity, to join such names as Adonis ace 
3Iari/ together ! 



CORN RIGS ARE BONIE. 
All the old words that ever I could meet tj 
this air were the following, which seem to have 
"been an old chorus : 

" O corn rigs and rye rigs, 

O corn rigs are bonie ; * 

And wliere'er you meet a bonie lass, 
Preen up her cockernonv." 



THE MUCKING OF GEORDIE S BYRE. 
The chorus of this song is old ; the rest in 
the work of Balloon Tytler. 



BIDE YE YET. 
There is a beautiful song to this tune, begin 
ning, 

" Alas, my son, ^on little know," — 

which is the composition of Miss Jenny Graham, 
of Dumfries. 



WAUKIN 0' THE lAULD. 

There are two stanzas still sung to this tune, 
which I take to be the original song whence 
Ramsay composed his beautiful song of tliat 
name in the Gentle Shepherd. — It begins 

" O will ye speak at our towTj, 
As ye come frae the fauld." 

I regret that, as in many of our old songB, 
the delicacy of this old fragment is not ec^aaJ 
to its wit and humour. 



TRANENT-MUIR 
" Tranent-Muir," was composed by a Mr. 
Skirving, a very worthy respectable farmer near 
Haddington. I have heard the anecdote often, 
that Lieut. Smith, whom he mentions in th« 
ninth stanza, came to Haddington after th« 



510 



REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONO. 



publication of the song, and sent a challenge to 
Skirving to meet him at Haddington, and an- 
swer for the unworthy manner in which he had 
noticed him in his song. " Gang away back," 
said the honest farmer, " and tell Mr. Smith 
that 1 hae nae leisure to come to Haddington ; 
but tell him to come here, and I'll tak a look o' 
him, and if I think I'm fit to fecht him, I'll 
fecht him ; and if no, I'll do as he did — Pll rin 



TO THE WEAVERS GIN YE GO. 
The chorus of this song is old, the rest of it 
is mine. Here, once for all, let me apologize 
for many silly compositions of mine in this 
work. Many beautiful airs wanted words ; in 
the hurry of other avocations, if I could string 
a parcel of rhymes together anything near tole- 
rable, I was fain to let them pass. He must be 
an excellent poet indeed whose every perform- 
ance is excellent. 



POLWARTH ON THE GREEN. 
The author of " Polwarth on the Green" is 
Capt. John Drummond M'Gregor, of the family 
of Bochaldie. 



STREPHON AND LYDIA. 

The following account of thjs song I had 
from Dr. Blacklock. 

The Strephon and Lydia mentioned in the 
Bong were perhaps the loveliest couple of their 
time. The gentleman was commonly known by 
the name of Beau Gibson. The lady was the 
" Gentle Jean," celebrated somewhere in Ha- 
milton of Bangour's poems. -Having frequently 
met at public places, they had formed a recipro- 
cal attachment, which their friends thought 
dangerous, as their resources were by no means 
adequate to their tastes and habits of life. To 
?lude the bad consequences of sujh a connexion, 
Strephon was sent abroad with a commission, 
fcnd perished in Admiral Vernon's expedition to 
Carthagena. 

The author of this song was William Wallace, 
Rsq, of Cairnhill, in Ayrshire. 



I'M O'ER YOUNG TO MARRY YET. 
The chorus of this song is old. The rest of 
t. such as it is. is minr 



M'PHERSON S FAREWEJ.L. 

M'Phekson, a daring robber, in the begin* 
ning of this century, was condemned to be 
hanged at the assizes of Inverness. He is said, 
when under sentence of death, to have composed 
this tune, which he called his own lament oi 
farewell. 

Gow has published a variation of tLs fin« 
tune as his own composition, -viphich he calls 
" The Princess Augusta." 



MY JO, JANET. 
Johnson, the publisher, with a foolish deli- 
cacy, refused to insert the last stanza of this 
humorous ballad. 

***** 



THE SHEPHERD'S COMPLAINT. 
The words by a Mr. R. Scott, from the town 
or neighbourhood of Biggar. 



THE BIRKS OP ABERFELDY. 
I COMPOSED these stanzas standing under the 
falls of Aberfeldy, at or near Moness. 



THE HIGHLAND LASSIE O. 
This was a composition of mine in very early 
life, before I was known at all in the world. My 
Highland lassie was a warm-hearted, charming 
young creature as ever \ cssed a man with 
generous love. After a pretty long tract of the 
most ardent reciprocal attachment, we met by 
appointment on the second Sunday of May, in 
a sequestered spot by the banks of Ayr, where 
we spent the day in taking a farewell before she 
should embark for the West Highlands, to ar- 
range matters among her friends for our pro- 
jected change of life. At the close of autumn 
following she crofesed the sea to meet me &\ 
Greenock, where she had scarce landed when 
she was seized with a malignant fever, which 
hurried my dear girl to the grave in a few days, 
before I could even hear of her last illness. 



FIFE, AND A' THE LANDS ABOUT IT. 
This song is Dr. Blacklock's. He, as well aa 
I, often gave Johnson verses, trifling enough 



REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 



hU 



Iterhaps, but they served as a vehicle to the 
music 



>vi;re na my heart light i wad die. 

Lord Hailes, in the notes to his collection of 
ftflcient Scots poems, says that this song was 
fhe coicposition of a Lady Grissel Baillie, 
laughter of the first Earl of Marchmont, and 
«ife cf ■ Gef'rge Baillie, of Jerviswood. 



THE YOUNG MAN'S DREAM. 
Thi? soBg is the composition of Balloon Tytler. 



STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT. 

This air is the composition of one of the 
worthiest and best-hearted men living — Allan 
Masterton, schoolmaster in Edinburgh. As he 
and I were both sprouts of Jacobitism we agreed 
to dedicate the words and air to that cause. 

To tell the matter-of-fact, except when my 
passions were heated by some accidental cause, 
my Jacobitism was merely by way of vive la 



UP IN THE MORNING EARLY. 
The 'chorus of this is old; the two stanzas 
are mine. 



THE TEARS OP SCOTLAND. 
1)k,. Blacklock told me that Smollet, who was 
ftt the bottom a great Jacobite, composed these 
beautiful and pathetic verses on the infamous 
depredati<>ns of the Duke of Cumberland after 
the battlt oi" Culloden. 



WHAT WILL I DO GIN MY HOGGIE DIE. 

On. Walker, vrho was minister at Moffat in 
1772, and is now (1791) Professor of Natural 
History in the University of Edinburgh, told 
the following anecdote concerning this air. — 
He said, that some gentlemen, riding a few 
years ago through Liddesdale, stopped at a 
hamlet consisting of a few houses, called Moss 
Piatt, when they were struck with this tune, 
which an old woman, spinning on a rock at her 
ioor, was singing. All she could tell concern- 
Ins it was, that she was taught it when a child. 



and it was called " What will I do gin my Hog- 
gie die ?" No person, except a few females at 
Moss Piatt, knew this fine old tune," which in aU 
probability would have been lost had not one 
of the gentlemen, who happened to have a flut<» 
with him, taken it down. 



I DREAM'D I LAY WHERE FLOWERS WERK 
SPRINGING. 
These two stanzas 1 composed when I was 
seventeen, and are amoiig the oldest of my 
printed pieces. 



AH ! THE POOR SHEPHERD'S MOURNFUL 

PATE. 

Tune — " Gallasliiels." 

The old title, " Sour Plums o' Gallashiels,'- 

probably was the beginning of a song to thia 

air, which is now lost. 

The tune of Gallashiels"' was composed about 
the beginning of the present century by the 
Laird of Gallashiel's piper. 



THE BANKS OF THE DEVON. 
These verses were composed on a charming 
girl, a Miss Charlotte Hamilton, who is now 
married to James M'Kitrick Adair, Esq., phy- 
sician. She is sister to my worthy friend Gavin 
Hamilton, of Mauchline, and was born on the 
banks of the Ayr, but was, at the time I wrote 
these lines, residing at Herveyston, in Clack 
mannanshire, on the romantic banks of the little 
river Devon. I first. heard the air from a lady 
in Inverness, and got the notes taken down for 
this work. 



MILL, MILL 0. 
The original, or at least a song evidenGj 
prior to Eamsay's is still extant. — It i-uns thTiM, 

CHORUS. 

" The mill, mill O, and the kill, kill O, 
And the cog:gin o' Peggy's wheel, O, 
The sack and the sieve, and a' she did leav* 
And danc'd the miller's reel C— 

As I came down yon waterside, 

And by you shellin-hill O, 
There I spied a bonie bonie la is, 

And a lass that I lov'd right well O. ' 
* * * « 



512 



REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 



WE RAN AND THEY RAN. 
The author of " We ran and they ran" — was 
a Ilev. Mr. Murdoch M'Lennan, minister at 
Crathie, Dee-side. 



WALY, WALY. 
In the west country I have heard a different 
edition of the second stanza. — Instead of the 
four lines, beginning with, "When cockle-shells, 
fee," the other wa.y ran thus : — 

" O wherefore need I busk my head, 
Or wherefore need 1 kame my hair, 
Sin my fause luve has me forsook, 
And says, he'll never luve me mair." 



DUNCAN GRAY. 
Dk. Blacklock informed me that he had often 
heard the tradition, that this air was composed 
h\ a carman in Glasgow. 



DUMBARTON DRUMS. 
This is the last of the West-Highland airs ; 
and from it over the whole tract of country to 
the confines of Tweed-side, there is hardly a 
tune or song that one can say has taken its 
origin from any place or transaction in that part 
of Scotland. — The oldest Ayrshire reel, is Stew- 
arton Lasses, which was made by the father of 
the present Sir Walter Montgomery Cunning- 
ham, alias Lord Lysle ; since which period there 
has indeed been local music in that country in 
great plenty. — Johnie Faa is the only old song 
which I could ever trace as belonging to the ex- 
♦<»nsive county of Ayr. 



CAULD KAIL IN ABERDEEN. 
I'His song is by the Duke of Gordon. — The 
»ld verses are, 

" There's cauld kail m Aberdeen; 
And castocks in Strathbogie 
W^hen ilka lad maun hae his lass, 
Then fye, gie me my coggie. 

cHORra. 
My coggie, Sirs, my coggie. Sirs, 

I cannot want my coggie ; 
I wadna gie my three-girr'd cap 

For e'er a quene on Bogie. — 

There's Johnie Smith has got a wife, 
That scrimps him o' his coggie, 

If she v<7ere mine, upon my life 
I wad douk her in a bogie." 



FOR LAKE OF GOLD. 
Thejcountry girls in Ayrshire, instead of th« 
line — 

" She me forsook for a great duke," 
say, 

" For Athole's duke she me forsook:" 

which I take to be the origina. reading. 

These were composed by the late Dr. Austin, 
physican at Edinburgh. — He had courted a ladj , 
to whom he was shortly to have been married ; 
but the Duke of Athole having seen her, became 
so much in love with her, that he made pro- 
posals of marriage, which were accepted of, and 
she jilted the doctor. 



HERE'S A HEALTH TO MY TRUE LOVE, &c. 
This song is Dr. Blacklock's. He told me that 
tradition gives the air to our James IV. of Scot- 
land. 



HEY TUTTI TAITI. 
I HAVE met the tradition universally over 
Scotland, and particularly about Stirling, in the 
neighbourhood of the scene, that this air was 
Robert Bruce's march at the battle of Bannock- 
burn. 



RAVING WINDS AROUND HER BLOWING. 

I COMPOSED these verses on Miss Isabella 
M'Leod, of Raza, alluding to her feelings on 
the death of her sister, and the still more me- 
lancholy death of her sister's husband, the lata 
Earl of Loudon ; who shot himself out of sheer 
heart-break at some mortifications he suffered 
owing to the deranged state of his finances. 



TAK YOUR AULD CLOAK ABOUT YE. 
A PART of this old song, according to the 
English set of it, is quoted in Shakspeare. 



YE GODS, WAS STREPHON S PICTURE 
BLEST ? 
Tune — " Fourteenth of Octobei. 
The title of this air shows that it alludes to 
the famous king Crispian, the patron of the ho- 
nourable corporation of shoemakers. — St. Oris- 
plan's day falls on the fourteenth of Octobei 
old style, as the old proverb tells : 

" On the fourteenth of October 
Was ne'er a sutor sober." 



KEMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 



513 



<iINCE ROBB'D OP ALL THAT CHARM'D MY 
VIEWS. 
The old name of this air is, "the Blossom o' 
'he Easpberry." The song is Dr. Blacklock's. 



YOUNG DAMON. 
This air is by Oswald. 



KIRK WAD LET ME BE. 

Tradition in the western parts of Scotland 
tells that this old song, of which there are still 
diree stanzas extant, once saved a coTenanting 
clergyman out of a scrape. It was a little prior 
to tht revolution, a period when being a Scots 
covenanter was being a felon, that one of their 
clergy, who was at that very time hunted by 
the merciless soldiery, fell in, by accident, with 
a narty of the military. The soldiers were not 
exactly acquainted with the person of the reve- 
rend gentleman of whom they were in search ; 
but from suspicious circumstances, they fancied 
that they had got one of that cloth and oppro- 
brious persuasion among them in the person of 
this stranger. "Mass John" to extricate him- 
p.elf, assumed a freedom of manners, very unlike 
the gloo'Vay strictness of his sect ; and among 
jther convivial exhibitions, sung (and some tra- 
ditions say, composed on the spur of the occa- 
sion) "Kirk wad let me be," with such effect, 

that the snlc'iors swore he was a d-^ d honest 

fellow, *ind *bat it was impossible he could be- 
long to thosp hellish conventicles ; and so gave 
him his liberty. 

The first stanza of this song, a little altered, 
is a favourite kind of dramatic interlude acted 
at country weddings, in the south-west parts 
of the kingdom. A young fellow is dressed up 
like an old beggp.r ; a peruke, commonly made 
of carded tow, represents hoary locks ; an old 
bonnet ; a ragged plaid, or surtout, bound with 
a straw rope for a girdle ; a pair of old shoes, 
with straw ropes twisted round his ankles, as is 
done by shepherds in snowy weather : his face 
they disguise as like wretched old age as they 
can : in this plight he is brought into the wed- 
ding-house, frequently to the astonishment of 
strangers, who are not in the secret, and begins 
to sing — 

" O, I am a silly auld man, 

My name it is auld Glenae." &;c 



He is asked to drink, and by and bye ta 
dance, which after some imcouth excuses he ia 
prevailed on to do, the fiddler playing the tune, 
which here is commonly called "Auld Glenae ;" 
in short he is all the time so plied with MquoJ 
that he is understood to get intoxicated. »j)d 
with all the ridiculous gesticulations cf an 
old drunken beggar, he dances and staggen 
until he falls on the floor; yet still in all hi; 
riot, nay, in his rolling and tumbling on tht 
floor, with some or other drunken motion of his 
body, he beats time to the music, till at last 
he is supposed to be carried out dead drunk 



MasING ON THE ROARING OCEAN. 
I COMPOSED these verses out of compliment to 
a Mrs. M'Lachlan, whose husband is an ofiBce* 
in the East Indies 



BLYTHE WAS SHE. 
I COMPOSED these verses while I stayed at 
Ochtertyre with Sir William Murray. — The lady 
who was also at Ochtertyre at the same time 
was the well-known toast, Miss Euphemia Mu^ 
ray, of Lentrose; she was called, and very jusilj. 
"The Flower of Strathmore." 



JOHNNIE FAA, OR THE GYPSIB LADDIE. 

The people in Ayrshire begin this song — 
" The gypsies ca.m to my Lord Cassilia' yett." — 

They have a great many more stanzas in this 
song than I ever yet saw in any printed copy.— 
The castle is still remaining at Maybole, where 
his lordship shut up his wayward spouse, and 
kept her for life 

TO DAUNTOIS ME 

The two following old stanzas to this tun« 
have some merit : 

" To daunton me, to daunton me, 

ken ye what it is that'll daunton me ? — 
There's eighty-eight find eiglity-nine. 
And a' tlia.t I hae borne sinsyne. 
There's cess and press and Presbytne, 

1 think it will do meikle for to daunton me 

But to wanton me, to wanton me, 

ken ye what it is tliat wad wanton m« 
To see gude corn upon the rigs, 

And banishment amang the AVhigs, 
And right restor'd where right sud be, 

1 think it would do meikle for to wanton w» 



THE BONNIE LASS MADE THE BED TO ME. 
" The Bonnie Lass made the Bed to me," 
was compoaed on an amour of Charles II. when 
skulking iL the North, about Aberdeen in the 
time of the usurpation. He formed WKe petite 
affaire with a daughter of the house of Portle- 
iham, who was the "lass that made the bed t: 
Sjla '"—two verses of it are, 

•' 1 kiss'd her lips sae rosy red, 

While the tear stood blinkin in her e'e; 
] said, My lassie, dinna cry, 

For ye ay shall make the bed to me. 

She took her mither's hoUand sheets, 
And made them a' in sarks to me ; 

Blythe and merry may she be, 
The lass that made the bed to me." 



merchant, and now schoolmaster in Irvine. Hfl 
is the Davie to whom I address my printed poet- 
ical epistle in the measure of the Cherry and 
the Slae. 



ABSENCE. 
A SONG in the manner of Shenstone. 
This song and air are both by Dr. Blacklock. 



1 HAD A HORSE AND I HAD NAE MAIR. 

This story is founded on fact. A John Hun- 
ter, ancestor to a very respectable farming fa- 
mily, who live in a place in the parish, I think, 
of Galston. called Bar-mill, was the luckless 
hero that " had a horse and had nae mair." — 
For some little youthful follies he found it ne- 
cessary to make a retreat to the West-High- 
lands, where " he feed himself to a Highland 
Laird," for that is the expression of all the oral 
editions of the song I ever heard. — The present 
Mr. Hunter, who told me the anecdote, is the 
great-grandchild of our hero. 



UP AND WARN A WILLIE. 

This edition of the song I got from Tom Niel, 
of facetious fame, in Edinburgh. The expres- 
sion " Up and warn a' Willie," alludes to the 
Oraatara, or warning of a Highland clan to 
Arm". Not understanding this, the Lowlanders 
in the west and south say, " Up and waur them 
a\" &c. 



A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK. 
This song I composed on Miss Jenny Cruik- 
ehank, only child of my worthy friend Mr. Wil- 
liam Cruikshank, of the High-School, Edin- 
»>irgh. Tlie air is by a David Sillar, quondam 



AULD ROB MORRIS. 
It is remark-worthy that the song of " Holy 
and Fairly," in all the old editions' of it, ia 
called " The Drunken Wife p' Galloway," wbicb 
localizes it to that country. 



RATTLIN, ROARIN WILLIE. 
The last stanza of this song is mine ; it was 
composed out of compliment to one of the wor- 
thiest fellows in the world, William Dunbar, 
Esq., writer to the signet, Edinburgh, and Co- 
lonel of the Crochallan Corps, a club of wits 
who took that title at the time of raising the 
fencible regiments. 



WHERE BRAVING ANGRY WINTER STORMS 
This song I composed on one of the most ac- 
complished of women. Miss Peggy Chalmers, 
that was, now Mrs. Lewis Hay, of Forbes and 
Co.'s bank, Edinburgh. 



TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY. 
This song I composed about the age of seven 
teen. 



NANCY'S GHOST. 
This song is by Dr. Blacklock. 



TUNE YOUR FIDDLES, ETC. 
This song was composed by the Rev. Tohn 
Skinner, nonjuror clergyman at Linshart, near 
Peterhead. He is likewise author of " TuUocL 
gorum," " Ewie wi' the crooked Horn," "John 
o' Badenyond," &c., and what is of still more 
consequence, he is one of the worthiest of man- 
kind. He is the author of an ecclesiastical his- 
tory of Scotland. The air is by Mr. Marshall, 
butler to the Duke of Gordon ; the first com- 
poser of strathspeys of the age. I have been 
told by somebody, who had it of Marshall him 
self, that he took the idea of his three most 
celebrated pieces, " The Marquis of Huntley's 



KEMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 



5ia 



Reel," his " Farewell," and "Miss Admiral Gor- 
don's Reel," from the old air, jf'The German 
Lairdie " 



GILL MORICE. 
This plaintive ballad ought to have been 
called Child Maurice, and not Gil Maurice. In 
Us present dress, it has gained immortal honour 
from Mr. Home's taking from it the ground- 
work of his fine tragedy of Douglas. But I am 
of opinion that the present ballad is a modern 
composition; perhaps not much above the age 
of the middle of the last century ; at least I 
should be glad to see or hear of a copy of the 
present words prior to 1650. That it was taken 
from an old ballad, called " Child Maurice," 
now lost, I am inclined to believe ; but the pre- 
sent one maybe classed with " Hardy knute," 
"Kenneth," "Duncan, the Laird of Wood- 
^ouselie," "Lord Livingston," " Binnorie," 
" The Death of Monteith," and many other mo- 
dern productions, which have been swallowed by 
many readers as ancient fragments of old poems. 
This beautiful plaintive tune was composed by 
Mr. M'Gibbon, the selector of a collection of 
Scots tunes. R. B. 

In addition to the observations on Gil Morice, 
1 add, that of the songs which Captain Riddel 
mentions, "Kenneth" and "Duncan" are juve- 
nile compositions of Mr. iM'Kenzie, "The Man of 
Feeling."— M'Kenzie's father showed them in 
MS. to Dr. Blacklock, as the productions of his 
son, from which the Doctor rightly prognosti- 
cated that the young poet would make, in his 
more advanced years, a respectable figure in 
the world of letters. 

This I had from Blacklock. 



TIBBIE DUNBAR. 
This tune is said to be the composition of 
7ohn M'Gill, fiddler, in Girvan. He called it 
•ifler his own name 



WHEN I UPON THY BOSOM LEAN. 
Thcs song was the woi-k of a very worthy 
facetious old fellow, .John Lapraik, late of Dal- 
fram, near Muirkirk ; which little property he 
was obliged to sell in consequence of some con- 
nedon -is secTiriry f.^- some persons concerned 
In that vill.-in.ius bubble the atk bank. He 



has often told me that he composed this sonj 
one day when his wife had been fretting Ver 
their misfortunes. 



MY HARRY WAS A GALLANT GAY. 

Tune — " Highlander's Lament." ' 

The oldest title I ever heard to this air, was, 

" The Highland Watch's Farewell to Ireland " 

The chorus I picked up from an old woman iq 

Dumblane ; the rest of the song is mine. 



THE HIGHLAND CHARACTER. 
This tune was the composition of Gen. Reid, 
and called by him "The Highland, or 42d 
Regiment's March." The words are by Sir 
Harry Erskine. 



LEADER-HAUGHS AND YARROW. 
There is in several collections, the old sonji 
of " Leader-Haughs and Yarrow." It seems to 
have been the work of one of our itinerant min- 
strels, as he calls himself, at the conclusion of 
his song, " Minstrel Burn." 



THE TAILOR FELL THRO' THE BED, 

THIMBLE AN' A'. 

This air is the march of the corporati on of 

tailors. The second and fourth stauz.is ars 



BEWARE 0' BONNIE ANN. 
I COMPOSED this song out of compliment to 
Miss Ann Masterton, the daughter of myfrieni 
Allan Masterton, the author of the air of Strath- 
allan's Lament, and two or three others in this 
work. 



THIS IS NO MINE AIN HOUSE. 
The first half stanza is old, the rest is Rara 

say's. The old words are — 

" Tnis is no nune ain house, 

My ain house, my ain house; 
This is no mine ain house, 
I ken by the biggin o't. 

Bread and cheese are ray door-cheeK«, 
My door-cheeks, my door-cheeks ; 

Bread and cheese are my door-cheeka, 
And pancakes the rigi'in o't. 



516 



REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 



This is no my ain wean ; 

My ain wean, my ain wean ; 
This is no my ain wean, 

I ken by the greetie o't 

I'll tak the curchie aff my head, 

Aff my head, aff my head ; 
I'll tak the curchie aff my head, 

And row't about the feetie o't." 

The tune is an old Highland air, called 
■ Shuan truish willighan." 



LADDIE, LIE NEAR ME. 
This gong is by Blacklock. 



THE GARDENER AND HIS PAIDLE. 
This air is the " Gardener's March." The 
title of the song only is old ; the rest is mine. 



THE DAY RETURNS, MY BOSOM BURNS. 
Tune. — " Seventh pf Novembeir." 

I COMPOSED this song out of compliment to 
one of the happiest and worthiest married cou- 
ples in the world, Robert Riddel, Esq., of Grlen- 
riddel, and his lady. At their fire-side I have 
enjoyed more pleasant evenings than at all the 
houses of fashionable people in this country put 
together ; and to their kindness and hospitality 
I am indebted for many of the happiest hours 
of my life. 



THE GABERLUNZIE MAN. 
The " Gaberlunzie Man" is supposed to com- 
memorate an intrigue of James the Fifth. Mr. 
Callander, of Craigforth, published some years 
ago an edition of " Christ's Kirk on the Green," 
and the " Gaberlunzie Man," with notes critical 
and historical. James the Fifth is said to have 
been fond of Gosford, in Aberlady parish, and 
fchat it was suspected by his contemporaries, that 
tn his frequent excursions to that part of the 
coanti'y, he had other purposes in view besides 
golfing and archery. Three favourite ladies, 
Sandilands, Weir, and Oliphant (one of them 
resided at Gosford, and the others in the neigh- 
bourhood), were occasionally visited by their 
royal and gallant admirer, which gave rise to 
the following advice to his majesty, from Sir 
David Lijidsay, of the Mount, Lord Lyo». 

' Sow not your seed on Sandylands, 
nend not your strength m Weir, 



And ride not on an ETe'-i'i'int, 
For gawing o' your gear." 



MY BONNIE MARY. 
This air is Oswald's : the first half stanza i 
the song is old, the rest mine. 



THE BLACK EAGLE. 
This song is by Dr. Fordyce, whose merits si 
a prose writer are well known. 



JAMIE, COME TRY ME. 
This air is Oswald's ; the song mine. 



THE LAZY MIST. 
This song is mine. 



JOHNIE COPE. 
This satirical song was composed to comme« 
morate General Cope's defeat at Preston Pans, 
in 1745, when he marched against the Clans. 

The air was the tune of an old song, of which 
I have heard some verses, but now only remem- 
ber the title, which was, 

" Will ye go the coals in the morning." 



I LOVE MY JEAN. 
This air is by Marshall ; the song I composed 
:ut of compliment to Mrs. Burns. 
N. B. It was during the honeymoon. 



CEASE, CEASE, MY DEAR FRIEND, TO 
EXPLORE. 
The song is by Dr. Blacklock ; I believe, bal 
am not quite certain, that the air is his too. 



AULD ROBIN GRAY. 
This air was formerly called, " The bride- 
groom greets when the sun gangs down." Tht 
words are by Lady Ann Lindsay, of the Bal 
carras family. 



KEMAUKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 



5U 



DONALD AND FLORA. 
This is one of those fine Gaelio tunes, pre- 
served from time immemorial in the Hebrides ; 
they seem to be the ground-woi-k of many of 
our finest Scots pastoral tunes. The words of 
this song were written to commemorate the un- 
fortunate expedition of General Burgoyne in 
4merica, in 1777. 



O WERE I ON PARNASSUS' HILL. 
This air is Oswald's; the song I made out of 
compliment to Mrs. Burns. 



THE CAPTIVE ROBIN. 
This air is called " Robie donna Gorach. 



there's a YOUTH IN THIS CITY. 
This air is claimed by Neil Gow, who calls it 
his lament for his brother. The first half-stanza 
of the song^s old ; the rest mine. 



MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS. 
The first half-stanza of this song is old ; the 
rest is mine. 



OA' THE EWES AND THE KNOWES. 
This beautiful song is in true old Scotch 
Jaste, yet I do not know that either air or words 
were iu print before. 



THE BRIDA-L o'T. 
This stng is the work of a Mr. Alexander 
Ross, late schoolmaster ac Lochlee ; and author 
of a beautiful Scots poem, called " The Fortu- 
6ate Shepherdess." 

'' They say that Jockey '11 speed weel o't, 

They say that Jockey '11 speed weel o't, 
For ha grows brawer ilka d--^)- 

I hope we'll hae a bridal o't . 
For yesternight nae Carder gane, 

The backl ouse at the side wa' o't, 
He theva wi' Mesx was mirden seen, 

I h'.pe we'll hae a bridal o't. 

Au' we had but a bridal o't, 

An' we had but a bridal o't, 
vVe'd leave the rest unto gude luck, 

Ait. 3' there should betide ill o't : 



For bridal days are merry times. 

And young folks like the coming o't, 
And scribblers they bang up their rhymes 

And pipers they the bumming o't. 

The lasses like a bridal o't, 

The lasses like a bridal o't. 
Their braws maun be in rank tad file, 

Altho' that they should guice ill o't: 
The boddom o' the kist is llien 

furn'd up into the inmost o't, 
The end that held the kecks sae cleaa 

Is now become the teemest o't 

The bangster at the threshing o't, 

The bangster at the threshing o't, 
Afore it comes is fidgin-fain. 

And ilka day's a clashing o't: 
He'll sell his jerkin for a groat. 

His Under for anither o't, 
And e'er he want to clear his shot, 

His sark'll pay the tither o't 

The pipers and the fiddlers o't. 

The pipers and the fiddlers o't, 
Can smell a bridal unco' far, 

And like to be the middlers o't; 
Fan 1 thick and threefold they conver 

Ilk ane envies the tither o't. 
And wishes nane but him alane 

May ever see anither o't. 

Fan they hae done wi' eating o't, 

Fan they hae done wi' eating o't. 
For dancing they gae to the green, 

And aiblins to the beating o't : 
He dances best that dances fast, 

And loups at ilka reesing o't. 
And claps his hands frae hough to hou^ 

And furls about the feezings o't." 



TODLEN HAMB. 
This is perhaps the first bottle song that evei 



was composed. 



THE BRAES O' BALLOOHMYLE. 
This air is the composition of my frieni 
Allan Masterton, in Edinburgh. I composed th« 
verses on the amiable and excellent familj' of 
Whitefoords leaving Ballochmyle, when Sis 
John's misfortunes had obliged him to sell th» 



THE RANTIN' DOG, THE DADDTE T 
I COMPOSED this song pretty early in life, and 
sent it to a young girl, a \erj particular ac- 
quaintance of mine, who was at ,nat time undei 
a cloud. 

1 Fan, -when — the dialect of Angaa. 



618 



REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONQ. 



THE SHEPHERD'S PRErERENCE. 

This song is Dr. Blacklock's. — I don't know 
how it came by the name, but the oldest appel- 
lation of the air was, " Whistle and I'll come to 
you, my lad." 

It has little aflSnity to the tune commonly 
known by that name. 



THE BONIE BANKS OP AYR. • 
1 COMPOSED this song as I conveyed my chest 

tc far oa th* road to Greenock, where I was to 

embark in a few days for Jamaica. 
I meant it as my farewell dirge to my native 

land. 



JOHN O' BADENYON. 
Tni3 excellent song is the oomposition o* my 
worthy friend, old Skinner, at Linshart. 

" When first I cam to be a man 

Of twenty years or bo, 
i tnought myself a handsome youth. 

And fain the world would know ; 
In best attire I stept abroad, 

With spirits brisk and gay. 
And here and there and everywhere. 

Was like a morn in May ; 
No care had I nor fear of want. 

But rambled up and down, 
A.nd for a beau I might have pass'd 

.n country or in town; 
1 still was pleas'd where'er I went, 

And when I was aloi!e, 
I tun'd my pipe and pleas'd myself 

Wi' John o' Badenyon. 

Now in the days of youthful prime 

A mistress I must find, 
For love, I heard, gave one an air 

And ev'n improved the mind : 
On Phillis fair above the rest 

Kind fortune fixt my eyes, •• 
Her piercing beauty struck my heart. 

And she became my choice; 
To Cupid now with hearty prayer 

I offer'd many a vow ; 
And danc'd, and sung, and sigh'd, and swore, 

As other lovers do ; 
But, when at last I breath'd my flame, 

I found her cold as stone ; 
I left the jilt, and tun'd my pipe 

To John o' Badenyon. 

When tove had thus my heart beguil'd 

With foolish hopes and vain, 
To friendship's port I steer'd my course, 

And laugli'd at lover's pain 
A friend I got by lucky chance 

'Twas sometliing like divine, 
dn honest friend's a precious gift, 
' And such a gift was mine : 



And now, whatever might betide, 

A happy man was I, 
In any strait I knew to whom 

I freely might apply; 
A strait soon came : my friend I try'd j 

He heard, and spnrn'd my moan; 
I hy'd me home, and tun'd my pipe 

To John o' Biidenyon. 

Methought I should be wiser next, 

And would a patriot turn, 
Began to doat on Johnny Wxlks, 

And cry up Parson Home. 
Their manly spirit I admir'd, 

And prais'd their noble zea. , 
Who had with flaming tongue and pen 

Maintain'd the public weal ; 
But e'er a month or two had past, 

I found myself betray'd, 
'Twas self and party after all, 

For a' the stir they made ; 
At last I saw the factious knaves 

Insult the very throne, 
I curs'd them ?.' and tnn'd my pioe 

To Joi.^ o' li;.iien> ;j." 



A WAUKRIFE MINNIE. 
I PICKED up this old song and tune frorr i 
country girl in Nithsdale. — I never met witV. U 
elsewhere in Scotland. 

" Whare are you gaun, my bonie lass, 
Whare are you gaun, my hinnie, 
She answer'd me right saucilie, 
An errand for my minnie. 

O whare live ye, my bonie lass, 

O whare live ye, my hinnie, 
By yon burn-side, gin ye maun ken. 

In a wee house wi' my minnie. 

But I foor up the glen at e'en. 

To see my bonie lassie ; 
And lang before the gray morn cam, 

She was na hauf sa sacie. 

O weary fa' the waukrife cock, 
And the foumart lay his crawin ! 

He wauken'd the auld wife frae her sleep, 
A wee blink or the dawin. 

An angry wife I wat she raise; 

And o'er the bed slia "rought her^ 
And wi' a mickle hazJK 'iir<§ 

She made her a wee. ;«.> -d dochter. 

O fare thee weel, my bonie lass ! 

O fare thee weel, my hinnie I 
Thou art a gay and a bonie lass. 

But thou hast a waukrife minnie." 



TULLOOHGORUM. 
This first of songs, is the master-piece or mj 
old friend Skinner. lie was passing the day 



REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 



Ai 



It. the town of Culien, I think it was, in a 
friend's house whose name was Montgomery. 
Mrs. Montgomery observing, en passant, that the 
beautiful reel of TuUochgorum wanted words, 
she begged them of Mr. Skinne", who gratified 
her wishes, and the wishes of every Scottish 
Bong, lu this must excellent ballad. 

These particulars I had from the author's 
»cn, Bishop Skinner, at Aberdeen. 



FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT. 
'•'his song is mine, all except the chorus. 



AULD LANG SYNE. 
Ramsay here, as usual with him, has taken 
the idea of the song, and the first line, from 
tte ok. fragLflei-'„ wh-ch m&,y be seea iii the 
" Museum," vol. v. 



WILLIE BREW'D A PECK O' MAUT. 
Tms air is Masterton's; the song mine. — 
The occasion of it was this : — Mr. W. Nicol, of 
the High-School, Edinburgh, during the autumn 
-"racation being at Mofi'at, honest Allan, who was 
*t that time on a visit to Dalswinton, and I, 
went to pay Nicol a visit. — We had such a 
joyous meeting that Mr. Masterton and I agreed, 
each in our own way, that we should celebrate 
*he business. 



KILLIECRANKIE. 
Ihe battle of Killiecrankie was the last stand 
made by the clans for James, after his abdica- 
tion. Here the gallant Lord Dundee fell in the 
moment of victory, and with him feil the hopes 
of the party. General Mackay, when he found 
the Highlanders did not pursue his flying army, 
gaid, "Dundee must be killed, or he never 
would have overlooked this advantage." A 
fte>at strne marks the spot where Dundee fell. 



THE EWIE WI' THE CROOKED HORN. 
Another excellent song of old Skinner's. 



CRAIGIE-BURN WOOD. 
It is remarkable of this air that it is the con- 
Ine of that country where the greatest yart of 



oui lowland music (so far as from the title, 
words, &c., we can localize it) has been com 
posed. From Craigie-burn, near Mofi'at, unti' 
one reaches the West Highlands, we have 
scarcely one slow air of any antiquity. 

The song was composed on a passion jvhicb 
a Mr. Gillespie, a particular friend of mine, hac] 
for a Miss Lorimer, afterwards a Mrs. Whelp 
dale. This young lady was born at Craigie-burn 
Wood. — The chorus is part of an old foolish 
ballad. 



FRAE THE FRIENDS AND LAND I LOVE. 
I ADDED the four last lines, by way of giving 
a turn to the theme of the poem, such as it ia 



HUGHIE GRAHAM. 
There are several eaitions of tnis ballad.— 
TMs, here inserted, is from oral tradition in 
Ayrshire, where, when I was a boy, it was a 
popular song. — -It originally had a simple oW 
tune, which I have forgotten. 

" Our lords are to the mountains gane, 
A hunting o' the fallow deer, 
And they have gripet Hughie Graham, 
For stealing o' the bishop's mare. 

And they have tied him hand and foot, 
And led him up, thro' Stirling town; 

The lads and lasses met him there, 
Cried, Hughie Graham, thou art a lout 

O lowse my right hand free, lie says, 
And put my braid sword in the same ; 

He's no in Stirling to-\vn this day, 
Dare tell the tale to Hughie Graham. 

(Jp then bespake the brave Whitefoord, 

Ab he sat by the bishop's knee, 
Five hundred white stots I'll gie you, 

If ye'U let Hughie Graham gae free. 

O haud your tongue, the bishop says, 
And wi' your pleading let me be; 

For tho' ten Grahams were in his coat, 
Hughie Graham this day shall die. 

Up then bespake the fair Whitefoord, 
As she sat by the bishop's knee ; 

Five hundred white pence I'll gie you 
If ye'll gie Hughie Graham to me. 

O haud your tongue now, lady fair,. 

And wi' your pleading let it be ; 
Altho' ten Grahams were in his coat, 

It's for my honour he maun die. 

They've ta'en him to the gallows knows. 

He looked to the gallows tree, 
Yet never colour left his chees, 

Nor ever did he blink his e'fi 



S20 



REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONO. 



At length he looked around about, 

To see whatever he could spy : 
And there he saw his auld father, 

And he was weeping bitterly. 

5 haud your tongue, my father dear, 

And wi' your weeping let it be ; 

Thy weeping's sairer on my heart, 

Thaa a' that they can do to me. 

And ye may gie my brother John 
My sword that's bent in the middle clear ; 

And let him come at twelve o'c'ock, 
And see me pay the bishop's mare. 

And ye Tiay gie my brother James 
My swoid that's bent in the middle brown | 

And bid him i,(.«ie at four o'clock, 
And see his brothei Hugh cat down. 

Remember me to Maggy my \v:''e, 
The neist time ye gang o'er the moor, 

Tell her she staw the bishop's mare. 
Tell her she was the bishop's whore. 

And ye may tell my kith and kia, 
I never did disgrace their blood; 

And when they meet the bishop's eloak, 
To mak it shorter by the hood." 



A SOUTHLAND JENNY. 
Thi^ is a popular Ayrshire song, though the 
aotes were never taken down before. It, as 
well as many of the ballad tunes in this collec- 
tion, was written from Mrs. Burns's voice. 



MY TOCHER'S THE JEWEL. 
I'His tune is claimed by Nathaniel Gow. — It 
is notoriously taken from " The muckin o' Gor- 
die's byre." — It is also to be found long prior 
to Nathaniel Gow's era, in Aird's Selection of 
Airs and Marches, the first edition under the 
name of " The Highway to Edinburgh." 



TEEN, QUID WIPE, COUNT THE LAWIN'. 
TsE chorus of this is part of an old song, no 
(4aQza of which I recollect. 



THERE'LL NEVER BE PEACE TILL JAMIE 

COMES HAME. 
This tune is sometimes called " There's few 
gude fellows when Willie's awa." — But I never 
have been able to meet with anything else of 
*he song than the title. 



I DO CONFESS THOU ART SAE PAIR. 
This song is altered from a poem by 3i» 
Robert Ayton, private secretary to Mary and 
Ann, Queens of Scotland. — The poem is to be 
found in James Watson's Collection o'f Scots 
Poems, the earliest collection printed in Scot- 
land. I think that I have improved the simpli- 
city of the sentiments, by giving them a ScotI 
dress. 



THE SODGER LADDIE. 
The first verse of this is old ; the rest is by 
E,amsay. The tune seems to be the same with 
a slow air, called " Jackey Hume's Lament"— 
or, " The HoUin Buss" — or " Ken ye what Meg 
o' the Mill has gotten ?" 



WHERE WAD BONNIE ANNIE LIE. 
The old name of this tune is, — 

"Whare'll our gudeman lie." 
A silly old stanza of it runs thus — 
" O whare'll our gudeman lie, 
Gudeman lie, gudeman lie, 
O whare'll our gudeman lie, 
Till he shute o'er the simmei T 

Up amang the hen-bawks, 

The hen-bawks, the hen-bawk«, 

Up aijiang the hen-bawks, 
Amang the rotten timraer." 



GALLOWAY TAM. 
I HAVE seen an interlude (acted at a wedding) 
to this tune, called " The Wooing of the Maiden." 
These entertainments are now much worn out 
in this part of Scotland. Two are still retained 
in Nithsdale, viz. "Silly Pure Auld Glenae,'' 
and this one, " The Wooing of the Maiden.' 



AS I CAM DOWN BY YON CASTLE WA , 
This is a very popular Ayrshire song. 



LORD RONALD MY SON. 
This air, a very favourite one in Ayrshire, Is 
evidently the original of Lochaber. In this 
manner most of our finest more modern airs 
have had their origin. Some early minstrel, or 
musical shepherd, composed the simple, artless 
original air; which being picked up by th« 



REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG. 



521 



more learned musician, took the improved form 
it bears. 



O'ER THE MOOR AMANG THE HEATHER. 

Thip sopg is the composition of a Jean Glover, 
a girl who was not only a whore, but also a 
thief • and in one or other character has visited 
most of the Correction Houses in the West. 
She w&B born I believe in Kilmarnock, — I took 
the song down from her singing, as she was 
Btrolling through the country, with a sleight-of- 
hand blackguard. 



TO THE ROSE-BUD. 
This song is the composition of a John- 
eon, a joiner in the neighbourhood of Belfast. 
The tune is by Oswald, altered, evidently, from 
" Jockie's Gray Breeks." 



YON WILD MOSSY MOUNTAINS, 
This tune is by Oswald. The song alludes to 
a part of my private history, which it is of no 
consequence to the world to know. 



IT IS NA, JEAN, THY BONNIE FACE. 
These were originally English verses: — I 
gave them the Scots dress. 



EPPIE M'NAB. 
The old song with this title has more wit than 
decency. 

WHA IS THAT AT MY BOWER DOOR. 
This tune is also known by the name of " Lass 
an I come near thee." The words are mine. 



'No cold approach, no alter'd a en, 

Just what would in;ike suspicion start; 

No pause the dire extremes between, 
He made me blest — and broke my heart ' 



THE BONIE WEE THING. 
Composed on my little idol "the charming, 
lovely Davies." 



THE TITHER MORN. 
This tune is originally from the Highlands. 
I have heard a Gaelic song to it, which 1 wag 
told was very clever, but not by any means a 
lady's song. 



A MOTHER'S LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OP 

HER SON. 
This most beautiful tune is, I think, the hap' 
piest composition of tha» bard-born genius. 
John Eiddel, of the family of Glencarnock, at 
Ayr. The words were composed to commemo- 
rate the much-lamented and premature death 
of James Ferguson, Esq., jun. of Craigdarroc)* 



THOU ART GANE AWA. 
This tune is the same with "Hand awa frae 
me, Donald." 



THE TEARS I SHED MUST EVER FALL. 

This song of genius was composed by a Miss 
Cranston. It wanted four lines, to make all the 
Itanzas suit the music, which I added, and are 
th« four first of the las stanza. 



DAINTIE DAVIE. 

This song, tradition says, and the composition 
itself confirms it, was composed on the Rev. 
David Williamson's begetting the daughter of 
Lady Cherrytrees with child, while a party of 
dragoons were searching her house to appre 
hend him for being an adherent to the solemn 
league and covenant. The pious woman had 
put a lady's night-cap on him, and had laid him 
a-bed with her own daughter, and passed him 
I to the soldiery as a lady, her daughter's bed- 
! fellow. A mutilated stanza "r two are to be 
found in Herd's collection, but the original song 
consists of five or six stanzas, and were their 
delicacy equal to their wit and humour, they 
would merit a place in any collection. The 
first stanza is 

" Being pursued by the dragoons. 
Within ray bed he was laid down ; 
And weel 1 wat he was worth hi i room, 
For he was my Daintie Davie . ' 

Ramsay's song, " Luckie Nansy," though ha 
calls it an ohi !=ong with additions, seems ta b« 
all his own eA.ept the chorus: 

" I was a telling you, 

Luckie Nansy, Luckie Nansv 



Auld springs wad ding the new, 
But ye wad never trow me." 

Which I should conjecture to be part of a soug 
prior to the affair of Williamsou. 



BOB 0' DUMBLANE. 
Ramsay, as usual, has modernized this song. 
The original, which I learned on the spot, from 
my old hostess in the principal inn there, is — 

" Lassie, lend me your braw hemp heckle. 
And I'll lend you my thripplin-karae ; 
My iieckle is broken, it canna be gotten. 
And we'll gae dance the bob o' Dumblane. 



Twa gaed to the wood, to*he wood, to the wood, 
Twa gaed to the wood — three came hame ; , 

An' it be na weel bobbit, weel bobbit, weel bobbii 
An' it be na weel bobbit, we'll bob it again." 

I insert this song to introduce the following 
anecdote, which I have heard well authenti- 
cated. In the evening of the day of the battle 
of Dumblane, (Sheriff Muir,) when the action 
was over, a Scots officer in Argyll's army, 
observed to His Grace, that he was afraid the 
rebels would give out to the world that they 
had gotten the victory. — "Weel, weel," returned 
his Grace, alluding to the foregoing ballad, "if 
they think it be nae weel bobbit, we'll bob it 
again." 



THE BOEDEE TOUE. 



Left Edinburgh (May 6, 1787) — Lammer- 
muir-hills miserably dreary, but at times very 
picturesque. Lanton-edge, a glorious view of 
the Merse, — Reach Berrywell — old Mr. Ainslie 
an uncommon character ; — his hobbies, agricul- 
ture, natural philsopohy, and politics. — In the 
first he is unexceptionably the clearest-headed, 
best-informed man I ever met with ; in the 
other two, very intelligent : — As a man of busi- 
ness he has uncommon merit, and by fairly de- 
serving it has made a very decent independence. 
Mrs. Ainslie, an excellent, sensible, cheerful, 
amiable oid woman. — Miss Ainslie — her person 
a little embonpoint, but handsome ; her face, par- 
ticularly her eyes, full of sweetness and good 
humour — she unites three qualities rarely to be 
found together ; keen, solid penetration ; sly, 
witty observation and remark ; and the gentlest, 
atost unaffected female modesty — Douglas, a 
elever, fine, promising young fellow. — The 
family-meeting with their brother ; my com- 

1 The author of that fine song, " The Maid that tends 
the Goats." 

2 " During the discourse Burns produced a neat im- 
promptu, conveying an elegant compliment to Miss Ains- 

ie. Dr. B. had selected a text of Scripture that contained 
% heavy denunciation against obstinate sinners. In the 
course of the sermon Burns observed the young lady 
turning over the leaves of her Bible, with much earnest- 



pagnon de voyage, very charming ; particularly 
the sister. The whole family remarkably at- 
tached to their menials— Mrs. A. full of stories 
of the sagacity and sense of the little girl in the 
kitchen. — Mr. A. high in the praises of an Afri- 
can, his house-servant — all his people old in his 
service — Douglas's old nurse came to Berrywell 
yesterday to remind them of its being his birth- 
day. 

A Mr. Dudgeon, a poet at times,' a worthy 
remarkable character — natural penetration, a 
great deal of information, some genius, and ex- 
treme modesty. 

Sunday. — Went to church at Dunse^ — Dr. 
Howmaker a man of strong lungs and pretty 
judicious remark ; but ill skilled in propriety, 
and altogether unconscious of his want of it. 

Monday. — Coldstream — went over to England 
— Cornhill — glorious river Tweed — clear and 
majestic — fine bridge. Dine at Coldstream with 



nesB, in search of the text. He took out a slip of paper, 
and with a pencil wrote the following lines on it, whiel 
he immediately presented to her. 

' Fair maid, you need not take the hint, 
Nor idle texts pursue : — 
'Twas guilty sinners that he meant, — 
Not angels such as you." 

Ceovbk. 



THE BORDER TOUR. 



t)23 



Mr Ainslie and Mr. Foreman — beat Mr. F- 
in a dispute about Voltaire. Tea at Lenel 
House -with Mr. Brydone — Mr. Brydone a moBt 
excellent heart, kind, joyous, and benevolent ; 
Dut a good deal of the French indiscriminato 
complaisance — from his situation pagt and pre- 
sent, an admirer of everything that bears a 
splendid title, or that possesses a large estate — 
Mrs Brydone a most elegant woman in her per- 
Bon and manners ; the tones of her voice re- 
markably sweet — my reception extremely flat- 
tering — sleep at Coldstream. 

Tuesday. — Breakfast at Selso — charming situ- 
ation of Kelso — fine bridge over the Tweed — 
enchanting views and prospects on both sides 
of the river, particularly the Scotch side ; in- 
troduced to Mr. Scott of the Royal Bank — an 
excelifent, n»ode5't. fell^w-^fine situation of it — 
ruins v^f E.v^buig,ii Ci.i>tle- a, hcy-bdofi, gijw- 
ing where James II. of Scotland was acciden- 
tally killed by the bursting of a cannon. A 
email ola religious ruin, and a fine old garden 
planted by the religious, rooted out and destroyed 
by an English hottentot, a maitre d'hotel of the 
duke's, a Mr. Cole — climate and soil of Berwick- 
Bhire, and even Roxburghshire, superior to 
Ayrshire — bad roads. Turnip and sheep hus- 
bandry, their great improvements — Mr. M''- 
Powal, at Caverton Mill, a friend of Mr. Ains- 
lie's, with whom I dined to-day, sold his sheep, 
fcwe and lamb together, at two guineas a piece 
— wash their sheep before shearing — seven or 
eight pounds of washen wool in a fleece — low 
markets, consequently low rents — fine lands 
not above sixteen shillings a Scotch acre — mag- 
nificence of farmers and farm-houses — come up 
Teviot and up Jed to Jedburgh to lie, and so 
wish myself a good night. 

TTeifwesJa^.— Breakfast with Mr. in Jed- 
burgh — a squabble between Mrs. , a crazed, 

talkative slattern, and a sister of hers, an old 
maid, respecting a relief minister — Miss gives 
Madaifi ii^lie; and Madam, by way of revenge, 
upbraids her that she laid snares to entangle 
the said minister, then a widower, in the net 
of matrimony — go about two miles out of Jed- 
burgh to a reup of parks — meet a polite, sol- 
dier-like gentleman, a Captain Rutherford, who 
had been many years through the wilds of 
America, a prisoner among the Indians — charm- 
ing, romantic situation of Jedburgh, with gar- 
4enA, orchards, &c., intermingled among the 



houses — fine old ruins — a cnce magnificent ca< 
thedral, and strong castle. All the towns her* 
have the appearance of old, rude gran lour, but 
the people extremely idle — Jed a fine romantic 
little river. 

Dine with Capt. Rutherford — the Captain a 
polite fellow, fond of money in his farming 
way; showed a particular respect to my lard- 
ship — hia lady exactly a proper matrimonial 
second part for him. Miss Rutherford a beau- 
tiful girl, but too far gone woman to expose so 
much of a fine Bwelling bosom —her face very 
fine. 

Return to Jedburgh walk up Jed with soma 
ladies to be sliown Love-lane and Blackburn; 
two fairy scenes. Introduced tc Mr. Potts, 
wri ter, a very clever fallow ; and Mr. Somer- 
ville, the clergyman of the place, a man and a 
gentleman, but sadly addicted to punning — 

The walKing party of ladies, Mrs. and 

Miss ' her sister, before mentioned. — N.B 

These two appear still more comfortably ugly 
and stupid, and bore me most shockingly. Two 

Miss , tolerably agreeable. Miss Hope, a 

tolerably pretty girl, fond of laughing and fun. 
Miss Lindsay, a good-humoured, amiable girl; 
rather short et embonpoint, but handsome, and 
extremely graceful — beautiful hazel eyes, full 
of spirit, and sparkling with delicious moisture 
— an engaging face — un tout ensemble that speaks 
her of the first order of female minds — her 
sister, a bonnie, strappan, rosy, sonsie lass. 
Shake myself loose, after several unsuccessful 



efforts, of Mrs 



and Miss 



-, and some- 



how or other, get hold of Miss Lindsay's arm. 
My heart is thawed into melting pleasure after 
being so long frozen up in the Greenland bay 
of indifi'erence, amid the noise and nonsense of 
Edinburgh. Miss seems very well pleased with 
my hardship's distinguishing her, and after 
some slight qualms, which I could easily mark, 
she sets the titter round at defiance, and kindly 
allows me to keep my hold ; and when parted 
by the ceremony of my introduction to Mr 
Somerville, she met me half, to resume my situ 

ation. Nota Bene — The poet within a point 

and a half of being d-mnably in love — I am 
afraid my bosom is still nearly as much tinder 
as ever. 

The old cross-grained, whiggish, ugly, slan- 
derous Miss , with all the poisonous spleen 

of a disappointed, ancient maid, stops me verj 
unseasonably to ease her bursting breast, b^ 



624 



THE BORDER TOUR 



falling abusively foul on the Miss Lindsays, par- 
ticularly on my Dulcinea ; — I hardly refrain 
from cursing her to her face for daring to mouth 
her calumnious slander on one of the finest 
pieces of the workmanship of Almighty Excel- 
lence ! Sup at Mr. 's ; vexed that the 

Miss Lindsays are not of the supper-party, as 

they only are wanting. Mrs. and Miss 

• still improve infernally on my hands. 

Set out next morning for Wauchope, the seat 
of my correspondent, Mrs. Scott — breakfast by 
the way with Dr. Elliot, an agreeable, good- 
hearted, climate-beaten old veteran, in the 
medical line; now retired to a romantic, but 
rather moorish place, on the banks of the Roole 
— he accompanies us almost to Wauchope — we 
traverse the country to the top of Bochester, 
the scene of au old encampment, and Woolee 
Hill. 

Wauchope — Mr. Scott exactly the figure and 
face commonly given to Sancho Panca — very 
shrewd in his farming matters, and not unfre- 
quently stumbles on what may be called a 
strong thing rather than a good thing. Mrs. 
Scott all the sense, taste, intrepidity of face, 
and bold, critical decision, which usually dis- 
tinguish female authors. — Sup with Mr. Potts 
— agreeable party. — Breakfast next morning 
with Mr. Somerville — the bruit of Miss Lindsay 
and my hardship, by means of the invention 

and malice of Miss . Mr. Somerville sends 

to Dr. Lindsay, begging him and family to 
breakfast if convenient, but at all events to 
send Miss Lindsay; accordingly Miss Lindsay 
only comes. — I find Miss Lindsay would soon 
play the devil with me — I met with some little 
flattering attentions from her. Mrs. Somerville 
an excellent, motherly, agreeable woman, and a 

fine family. — Mr. Ainslie, and Mrs. S , junrs., 

with Mr.' , Miss Lindsay, and myself, go to 

see Esther, a very remarkable woman for recit- 
ing poetry of all kinds, and sometimes making 
Scotch doggerel herself — she can repeat by 
heart almost everything she has ever read, 
particularly Pope's Homer from end to end — 
has studied Euclid by herself, and in short, ia 
a woman of very extraordinary abilities. — On 
conversing with her I find her fully equal to 
the character given of her.' — She is very much 

1 " This extraordinary woman then moved in a very- 
Humble walk of life : — the wife of a common working 
gardener. She is still living, and, if 1 am rightly in- 
Wtmel *'.*r time is principally occupied in hei attentions 



flattered that I send for her, and that she seel 
a poet who has put om a book, as she says. — 
She is, among other things, a great florist — and 
is rather past the meridian of once celebrated 
beauty. 

I walk in Esther's garden with Miss Lindsay, 
and after some little chit-chat of the tender 
kind, I presented her with a proof print of my 
Nob, which she accepted with something more 
tender than gratitude. She told me many little 

stories which Miss had retailed concerning 

her and me, with prolonging pleasure — God 
bless her ! Was waited on by the magistrates, 
and presented with the freedom of the burgh. 

Took farewell of Jedburgh, with some melan- 
choly, disagreeable sensations. — Jed, pure be 
thy crystal streams, and hallowed thy sylvan 
banks ! Sweet Isabella Lindsay, may peace 
dwell in thy bosom, uninterrupted, except by 
the tumultuous throbbings of rapturous love.! 
That love-kindling eye must beam on another, 
not on me ; that graceful form must bless an- 
other's arms; not mine ! 

Kelso. Dine with the farmers' club — all 
gentlemen, talking of high matters — each of 
them keeps a hunter from thirty to fifty pounds 
value, and attends the fox-huntings in the coun- 
try — go out with Mr. Ker, one of the club, and 
a friend of Mr. Ainslie's, to lie — Mr. Ker a most 
gentlemanly, clever, handsome fellow, a widower 
with some fine children — his mind and manner 
astonishingly like my dear old friend Robert 
Muir, in Kilmarnock — everything in Mr. Ker'a 
most elegant — he offers to accompany me in my 
English tour. Dine with Sir Alexander Don — 
a pretty clever fellow, but far from being a 
match for his divine lady. — A very wet day 
* * * — Sleep at Stodrig again ; and set out foi 
Melrose — visit Dryburgh, a nne old ruined ab- 
bey — still bad weather — cross Leader, and come 
up Tweed to Melrose — dine there, and visit that 
far-famed, glorious ruin — come to Selkirk, uf 
Ettrick ; the whole country hereabout, both on 
Tweed and Ettrick, remarkably stony. 

Monday. — Come to Inverleithing, a famous 
shaw, and in the vicinity of the palace of Tra- 
quair, where having dined, and drank some 
Galloway-whey, I here remain till to-morrow — 

to a little day-school, whic'i not being sufficient for he» 
subsistence, she is obliged to solicit the charity of hei 
benevolent neighbours. ' Ah, who would lore thf 

lyre !' "— Cromek. 



THE BORDEK TOUR. 



52r 



BawElibanks and Elibraes, on the other side of 
the Tweed. 

Tuesday. — Drank tea yesternight at Pirn, with 
Mr. Horseburgh. — Breakfasted to-day with Mr. 
Ballantyne of HoUowlee — Proposal for a four- 
horse team to consist of Mr. Scott cf Wauchope, 
Fittieland : Logan of Logan, Fittiefurr : Ballan- 
tyne of Hollowlee, Forewynd : Horsburgh of 
Horeburgh. — Dine at a country inn, kept by a 
miller, inEarlston, the birth-place and residence 
of the celebrated Thomas a Rhymer — saw the 
ruins of his castle — come to Berrywell. 

Wednesday. — Dine at Dunse with the farmers' 
club-company — impossible to do them justice — 
Rev, Mr. Smith a famous punster, and Mr. 
Meikle a celebrated mechanic, and inventor of 
the threshing-mills. — Thursday, breakfast at 
Berrywell, and walk into Dunse to see a famous 
knife made by a cutler there, and to be pre- 
sented to an Italian prince. — A pleasant ride 
with my friend Mr. Robert xlinslie, and his 
Bister, to Mr. Thomson's, a man who has newly 
commenced farmer, and has married a Miss 
Patty Grieve, formerly a flame of Mr. Robert 
A-inslie's. — Company — Miss Jacky Grieve, an 
amiable sister of Mrs. Thomson's, and Mr. Hood, 
an honest, worthy, facetious farmer, in the 
neighbourhood. 

Friday. — Ride to Berwick — An idle town, 
rudely picturesque. — Meet Lord Errol in walk- 
ing round the walls. — His lordship's flattering 
notice of me. — Dine with Mr. Clunzie, mer- 
chant — nothing particular in company or con- 
versation — Come lip a bold shore, and over a 
wild country to Eyemouth — sup and sleep at 
Mr. Grieve's. 

Saturday. — Spend the day at Mr. Grieve's — 
made a royal arch mason of St. Abb's Lodge.' 
— Mr. William Grieve, the oldest brother, a 
joyous, warm-hearted, jolly, clever fellow — 
takes a hearty glass, and sings a good song.- 
Mr. Robert, his brother, and partner in trade, 
a good fellow, but says little. Take a sail after 

1 The entry made on this occasion in the Lodge-books 
»f St. Abb's is honourable to 

" The brethren of the mystic level." 

" Eyemouth, 19th May, 178T. 
' A.T a general encampment held this day, the follow- 
ing Drethren ■were made royal arch masons, viz. Robert 
iurns, from the Lodge of St James's, Tarbolton, Ayr- 
ihi », and Robert Ainslie, from th« Lodge of St. Luke's. 



dinner. Fishing of all kinds pays tithes al 
Eyemouth. 

Sunday.:— A Mr. Robinson, brewer at Ednam, 
sets out with us to Dunbar. 

The Miss Grieves very good girls.- -My bai i- 
ship's heart got a brush from Miss Betsey. 

Mr. William Grieve's attachment to the fa- 
mily-circle, so fond, that when he is out, which 
by the bye is often the case, he cannot go t« 
bed till he see if all his sisters are sleeping 

well Pass the famous Abbey of Colding- 

ham, and Pease-bridge. — Call at Mr. Sheriff's 
where Mr. A. and I dine. — Mr. S. talkative and 
conceited. I talk of love to Nancy th^ wli^le 
evening, while her brother escorts home some 
companions like himself. — Sir James Hall of 
Dunglass, having heard of my being in the 
neighbourhood, comes to Mr. Sheriff's to break- 
fast — takes me to see his fine scenery on the 
stream of Dunglass — Dunglass the most reman 
tic, sweet place I ever saw — Sir James and his 
lady a pleasant happy couple. — He points out 
a walk for which he has an uncommon respect, 
as it was made by an aunt of his, to whom he 
owes much. 

Miss will accompany me to Dunbar, by 

way of making a parade of me as a sweetheart 
of hers, among her relations. She mounts an 
old cart-horse, as huge and as lean as a house ; 
a rusty old side-saddle without girth, or stii ■ 
rup, but fastened on with an old pillion-girth — 
herself as fine as hands could make her, in 
cream-coloured riding clothes, hat and feather, 
&c. — I, ashamed of my situation, ride like the 
devil, and almost shake her to pieces on old 
Jolly — get rid of her by refusing to call at her 
uncle's with her. 

Past through the most glorious corn-country 
I ever saw, till I reach Dunbar, a neat little 
town. — Dine with Provost Fall, an eminent 
merchant, and most respectable character, but 
undescribable, as he exhibits no marked traits. 
Mrs. Fall, a genius in painting; fully mere 
clever in the fine arts and sciences than my 
friend Lady Wauchope, without her consummate 

Edinburgh, by James Carmichael, Wm. GnevS; Dame? 
Dow, John Clay, Robert Grieve, &c. &e. Robct Ainslii 
paid one guinea admission dues ; but on account of R 
Burns's remarkable poetical genius, the encampment 
unanim.iusly agreed to admit him gratis, find considered 
themselves honoured by having a m;in of sucn shining 
abilities for one of their companions." 
Extracted from the Minute Book of the Lodge by 

Thomas Bowhili. 



THE B )IIDER TOUR. 



assurance of her own abilities. — Call with Mr. 
Ilobinsou (-nho, by the bye, I find to be a 
worthy, much respected man, very modest ; 
warm, social heart, which with less good sense 
than his would be perhaps with the children of 
prim precision and pride, rather inimical to that 
respect which is man's due from man) with him 
I call on Miss Clarke, a maiden in the Scotch 
phrase, " Guid enough, but no brent new:" a clever 
woman, with tolerable pretensions to remark 
and wit ; while time had blown the blushing 
bud of bashful modesty into the flower of easy 
confidence. She wanted to see what sort of 
raree show an author was ;, and to let him know, 
that though Dunbar was but a little town, yet 
it was not destitute of people of parts. 

Breakfast next morning at Skateraw, at Mr- 
Lee's, a farmer of great note. — Mr. Lee, an ex- 
cellent, hospitable, social fellow, rather oldish ; 
warm-hearted and chatty — a most judicious, 
sensible farmer. Mr. Lee detains me till next 
morning. — Company at dinner. — My Rev. ac- 
quaintance Dr. Bowmaker, a reverend, rattling 
old fellow. — Two sea lieutenants ; a cousin of 
the landlord's, a fellow whose looks are of that 
kind which deceived me in a gentleman at 
Kelso, and has often deceived me : a goodly 
handsome figure and face, which incline one to 
give them credit for parts which they have not. 
Mr. Clarke„ a much cleverer fellow, but whose 
tooks a little cloudy, and his appearance rather 
ungainly, with an every-day observer may pre- 
judice the opinion against him. — Dr. Brown, a 
medical young gentleman from Dunbar, a fellow 
whose face and manners are open and engaging. 
— Leave Skateraw for Dunse next day, along 

with collector , a lad of slender abilities 

and bashfully diffident to an extreme. 

Found Miss Ainslie, the amiable, the sen- 
sible, the good-humoured, the sweet Miss Ains- 
lie, all alone at Berrywell. — Heavenly powers, 
who know the weakness of human hearts, sup- 
port mine ! What happiness must I see only to 
remind me that I cannot enjoy it ! 

Lammer-muir Hills, from East Lothian to 
Dunse, very wild. — Dine with the farmer's club 
at Kelso. Sir John Hume and Mr. Lumsden 
there, but nothing worth remembrance when 
the following circumstance is considered — I 
ivalk into Dunse before dinner, and out to 
Berrywell in the evening with Miss Ainslie — 
how well-bred, how frank, how good she is ! 
rjharming Rachael ! may thy bosom never be 



wrung' by the evils of this life of sorrows, or bj 

the villany of this world's sons ! 

Thursday. — Mr. Ker and I set out to dine at 
Mr. Hood's on our way to England. 

; am taken extremely ill with strong feverislj 
symptoms, and take a servant of Mr. Hood's to 
watch me all night — embittering remorse scares 
my fancy at the gloomy forebodings of death. — 
I am determined to live for the future in such a 
manner as not to be scared at the approach of 
death — I am sure I could meet him with indif- 
ference, but for 'J The something beyond the 
grave." — Mr. Hood agrees to accompany us to 
England if we will wait till Sunday. 

Friday. — T go with Mr. Hood to see a roup of 
an unfortunate farmer's stock — rigid economy, 
and decent industry, do you preserve me from 
being the priacipal dramatis persona in such a 
scene of horror. 

Meet my good old friend Mr. Ainslie, who 
calls on Mr. Hood in the evening to take fare- 
well of my bardship. This day I feel myself 
warm with sentiments of gratitude to the Greal 
Preserver of men, who has kindly restored m6 
to health and strength once more. 

A pleasant walk with my young friend Dou- 
glas Ainslie, a sweet, modest, clever young 
fellow. 

Sunday, 21th May. — Cross Tweed, and traverse 
the moors through a wild country till I reach 
Alnwick — Alnwick Castle a seat of the Duke of 
Northumberland, furnished in a most princely 
manner. — A Mr. Wilkin, agent of His Grace's, 
shows us the house and policies. Mr. Wilkin,. 
a discreet, sensible, ingenious man. 

Monday. — Come, still through by-ways, U 
Warkworth, where we dine. — Hermitage and 
old castle. Warkworth situated very pictu- 
resque, with Coquet Island, a small rocky spot, 
the seat of an old monastery, facing it a little 
in the sea ; and the small but romantic river 
Coquet, running through it. — Sleep at Morpeth, 
a pleasant enough little town, and on next day 
to Newcastle. — Meet with a very agreeable, sen- 
sible fellow, a Mr. Chattox, who shows us> a 
great many civilities, and who dines and supe 
with us. 

Wednesday. — Left Newcastle early m the morn 

ing, and rode over a fine country to Hexham to 

breakfast — from Hexham to Wardrue, the cele 

I brated Spa, where we slept. — Thursday — reach 



THE HIGHLAND TOUR 



52'i 



Longtown to dine, and part there with my good 
friends Messrs. Hood and Ker — A hiring day in 
Longtown — I am uncommonly happy to see so 
many young folks enjoying life. — I come to 
Carlisle. — (Meet a strange enough romantic ad- 
venture by the way, in falling in with a girl and 
her marr.ed sister — the girl, .after some over- 
tures of gallantry on my side, sees me a little 
out with the bottle, and offers to take me in for 
a Gretna-Grreen affair. — I, not being such a gull, 
as she imagines, make an appointment with 
her, by way of vive la bagatelle, to hold a con- 
ference on it when we reach town. — I meet her 



in town and give her a brush of caressing, and 
a bottle of cider ; but finding herself un peu 
trompe in her man she sheers off.) Next day I 
meet my good friend, Mr. Mitchell, and walk 
with him round the town and its environs, and 
through his printing-works, &c. — four or fiva 
hundred people employed, many of them women 
and children. — Dine with Mr. Mitchell, an! 
leave Carlisle. — Come by the coast to Anna». 
— Overtaken on the way by a curious old fish 
of a shoemaker, and miner, from Cumberland 
mines. 

[jffere the manuscript ahruptly terminates.'] 



THE nrGHLAND TOUE. 



2^th August, 1787. 
I LEAVE Edinburgh for a northern tour, in 
company with my good friend Mr. Nicol, whose 
originality of humour promises me much enter- 
tainment. — Linlithgow — a fertile improved 
country — West Lothian. The more elegance 
and luxury among the farmers, I always observe 
in equal proportion, the rudeness and stupidi*-y 
of the peasantry. This remark I have made all 
over the Lothians, Merse, Roxburgh, &c. For 
this, among other reasons, I think that a man 
of romantic taste, a " Man of Feeling," will be 
better pleased with the poverty, but intelligent 
minds of the peasantry in Ayrshire (peasantry 
they are all below the justice of peace) than 
the opulence of a club of Merse farmers, when 
at the same time, he considers the vandalism 
of their plough-folks, &c. I carry this idea so 
far, that an unenclosed, half improven country 
is to me actually more agreeable, and gives me 
more pleasure as a prospect, than a country 
cultivated like a garden. — Soil about Linlith- 
gow light and thin. — The town carries the ap- 
pearance of rude, decayed grandeur — charming- 
ly rural, retired situation. The old royal palace 
a tolerably fine, but melancholy ruin — sweetly 
Bituated on a small elevation, by the brink of a 
loch. Shown the room where the beautiful, 
injured Mary Queen of Scots was born — a pretty 
food old Gothic church. The infamous stool 



of repentance standing, in the old Romieh way, 
on a lofty situation. 

What a poor pimping business is a Presbyte- 
rian place of worship ; dirty, narrow, and 
squalid ; stuck in a corner of old popish gran 
deur such as Linlithgow, and much more, Mel- 
rose ! Ceremony and show, if judiciously thro-^vn 
in, absol;itely necessary for the bulk of man- 
kind, both in religious and civil matters.— -Dine, 
— Go to my friend Smith's at Avon printfield- 
find nobody but Mrs. Miller, an agreeable, sen- 
sible, modest, good body ; as useiv.l, but not so 
ornamental as Fielding's Miss Western — ^not 
rigidly polite d, la FrangaiSj'bai easy, hospitable, 
and housewifely. 

An old lady from Paisley, a Mrs. Laws'^a, 
whom I promised to call for in Paisley — like old 

lady W , and still more like Mrs. C — —, 

her conversation is pregnant with strong sense 
and just remark, but like them, a certain air of 
self-importance and a duresse in the eye, seem 
to indicate, as the Ayrshire wife observed of her 
cow, that " she had a mind o' her ain." , 

Pleasant view of Dunfermline and the rest of 
the fertile coast of Fife, as we go down to that 
dirty, ugly place, Borrowstones — see a#hors9- 
race and call on a friend of Mr. Nicol's, a Bailie 
Cowan, of whom 1 know too little to ittempt 
his portrait — Come through the rich ;arsc of 
Falkirk *o pass the night. Falkirk nothing 



528 



THE HiaHLANB TOUR. 



remark-ahle except the tomb of Sir John the 
Graham, over which, in the succession of time, 
four stones have been placed. — Camelon, the 
ancient metropolis of the Picts, now a small vil- 
lage in the neighbourhood of Falkirk. — Cross the 
grand canal to Carron. — Come past Larbert and 
admire a fine monument of cast-iron erected by 
Mr. Bruce, the African traveller, to his wife. 

Pass Dunipace, a place laid out with fine 
taste — a charming amphitheatre bounded by 
Denny village, and pleasant seats down the way 
to Dunnipace. — The Carron running down the 
bosom of the whole makes it one of the most 
charming little prospects. I have seen. 

Dine at Auchinbowie — Mr. Monro an excel- 
lent, worthy old man — Miss Monro an amiable, 
sensible, sweet young woman, much resembling 
Mrs. Grierson. Come to Banuockburss — Shown 
the old house where James III. finished so tra- 
gically his unfortunate life. The field of Ban- 
nockburn — the hole where glorious Bruce set 
his standard. Here no Scot can pass unin- 
terested. — I fancy to myself that I see my 
gallant, heroic countrymen coming o'er the hill 
and down upon the plunderers of their coun- 
t'-y, the murderers of their fathers ; noble re- 
Vjnge, and just hate, glowing in every vein, 
striding more and more eagerly as they approach 
the oppressive, insulting, blood-thirsty foe ! I 
see them meet in gloriously triumphant congra- 
tulation on the victorious field, exulting in their 
heroic royal leader, and rescued liberty and in- 
dependence! Come to Stirling. — ilonday go io 
Harvieston. Go to see Caudron linn, and 
Rumbling brig, and Diel's mill. Return in the 
evening. Supper — Messrs. Doig, the school- 
master; Bell; and Captain Forrester of the 
sfj-stle — Doig a queerish figure, and something 
of 1 pedant — Bell a joyous fellow, who sings a 
good song. — Forrester a merry, swearing kind 
of man, with a dash of the sodger. 

Tuesday Horning. — Breakfast with Captain 
Forrester — Ochel Hills — Devon River — Forth 



1 Another northern bard has sketched this eminent 

musician — 

■< Tho. blythe Strathspey springs up, reminding some 
Of Lights when Gow's old arm, (nor old the tale,) 
Unceasing, save when reeking cans went round. 
Made heart and heel leap light as bounding roe. 
Alas !• no more shall we behold that look 
So venerable, yet so blent with mirth. 
And festive joy sedate ; that ancient garb 
Unv.iried,— tartan hose, and bonnet blue ! 
No more shall Beauty's partial eye draw forth 
Tie lull intoxication of his strain. 



and Tieth — Allan River — Strathallan, a fine 
country, but little improved- -Cross Earn fcc 
Criefi" — Dine and go to Arbruchil»— cold reception 
at Arbruchil — a most romantically pleasant rido 
up Earn, by Auchtertyre and Comrie to Arbru- 
chil — Sup at Crieff. 

Wednesday Morning. — Leave Crieff — Glen 
Amond — Amond river — Ossian's grave — Loch 
Fruoch — Glenquaicn — Landlord and landlady 
remarkable characters — Taymouth described in 
rhyme — Meet the Hon. Charles Townshend. 

Thursday. — Come down Tay to Dunkeld— 
Glenlyon House — Lyon River — Druid's Temple 
— three circles of stones — the outer-most sunk 
— the second has thirteen stones remaining — 
the innermost has eight — two large detached 
ones like a gate, to the south-east — Say prayers 
in it — Pass Taybridge — Aberfeldy — described 
in rhyme — Castle Menzies — Inver — Dr. Stewart 
— sup. 

Friday — Walk with Mrs. Stewart and Beard 
to Birnam top — fine prospect down Tay- 
Craigieburn hills — Hermitage on the Franwater, 
with a picture of Ossian — Breakfast with Dr. 
Stewart — Neil Gow' plays — a short, stout-built, 
honest Highland figure, with his grayish hair 
shed on his honest social brow — an interesting 
face, marking strong sense, kind openhearted- 
ness, mixed with unmistrusting simplicity — visit 
his house — Marget Gow. 

Ride up Tummel River to Blair — Fascally a 
beautiful romantic nest — wild grandeur of the 
pass of Gilliecrankie — visit the gallant Lord 
Dundee's stone. 

Blair — Sup with the Duchess— *easy and happy 
from the manners of the family — confirmed in 
my good opinion of my friend Walker, 

Saturday. — Visit the scenes round Blair — 
fine, but spoiled with bad taste — Tilt and Gairie 
rivers — Falls on the Tilt — Heather seat — Ride 
in company with Sir William Murray and Mr. 
Walker, to Loch Tummel — meanderings of th* 



Mellifluous, strong, exuberantly rich ! 
No more, amid the pauses of the dance, 
Shall he repeat those measures, that in aays 
Of other years, could soothe a falling prince. 
And light his visage with a transient smile 
Of melancholy joy, — like autumn sun 
Gilding a sear tree with a passing beam ! 
Or play to sportive chiluren on the green 
Dancing at gloamin hour ; or willing cheer 
With strains unbought, the shepherd's bridal day.' 
British Georgies, p. 8 



THE HIGHLAND TOUR 



529 



Rannach, which runs through quondam Struan 
Robertson's estate from Loch Rannach to Loch 
Tummel — Dine at Blair — Company — General 
Murray — Captain Murray, an honest tar — 
Sir William Murray, an honest, worthy man, 
but tormented with the hypochondria — Mrs. 
Graham, belle ei aimable — Miss Catchcart — 
Mrs. Murray, a painter — Mrs. King — Duchess 
and fine family, the Marquis, Lords James, Ed- 
ward, and Robert — Ladies Charlotte, Emilia, and 
children dance — Sup — Mr. Graham of Fintray. 
Come up the Garrie — Falls of Bruar — Dalde- 
cairoch — Dalwhinnie — Dine — Snow on the hills 
17 feet deep — No corn from Loch-Gairie to Dal- 
whinnie — Cross the Spey, and come down the 
stream to Pitnin — Straths rich — les environs pic- 
turesque — Craigow hill — Ruthven of Badenoch 
-Fa-ra-^ln— '^ild ".nc? mawis'ific^rt- -R.ot'i*?- 
murche on the other side, and Glenmore — 
Grant of Rothemurche's poetry — told me by 
the Duke of Gordon — Strathspey, rich and ro- 
mantic — Breakfast at Aviemore, a wild spot — 
dine at Sir James Grant's — Lady Grant, a sweet, 
pleasant body — come through mist and dark- 
ness to Dulsie, to lie. 

Tuesday. — Findhorn river — rocky banks — 
come on to Castle Cawdor, where Macbeth 
murdered King Duncan — saw the bed in which 
King Duncan was stabbed — dine at Balravock 
— Mrs. Rose, sen., a true chieftain's wife — Fort 
"George — Inverness. 

Wednesday. — Loch Ness — Braes of Ness — Ge- 
neral's hut — Falls of Fyers — Urquhart Castle 

" and Strath. 

Thursday. — Come over Culloden Muir — reflec- 
tions on the field of battle — breakfast at Kilra- 

, vock— old Mrs. Rose, sterling sense, warm 
heart, strong passions, 'and honest pride, all in 
an uncommon degree — Mrs. Rose, jun., a little 
milder than the mother — this perhaps owing to 
her being younger — Mr. Grant, ' minister at 
Calder, resembles Mr. Scott at Inverleithing — 
Mrs. Rose and Mrs. Grant accompany us to 
Kildiummie — two young ladies — Miss R&se, 
who sung two Gaelic songs, beautiful and lovely 
— Miss Sophia Brodie, most agreeable and ami- 
able — both of them gentle, mild ; the sweetest 
creatures on earth, and happiness be with them ! 
—Dine at Nairn — fall in with a pleasant enough 
gentleman. Dr. Stewart, who had been long 
abroad with his father in the forty-five ; and 
Mr. Falconer, a spare, irascible, warm-heatMed 
Vorland, and a nonjuror — Brodie-house te lie. 
34 



Friday. — Forres — famous stone at Forres — 
Mr. Brodie tells me that the muir where Shak- 
speare lays Macbeth's witch-meeting is still 
haunted — that the country folks won't pass it by 
night. 

* * * * 

Venerable ruins of Elgin Abbey — A grandci 
effect at first glance than Melrose, but not neaJ 
so beautiful — Cross Spey to Fochabers- -fine 
palace, worthy of the generous proprietor — Dirt 
— company, Duke and Duchess, Ladies Char- 
lotte and Magdeline, Col. Abercrombie, and 

Lady, Mr. Gordon and Mr. , a clergyman, 

a venerable, aged figure — the Duke makes mc 
happier than ever great man did — noble, 
'princely ; yet mild, condescending, and afi'able ; 
gay and kind — the Duchess witty and sensible 
— Gof" bless thera ! 

Coiiie to ijullcii to lie — uitherto tne country 
is sadly poor and unimproven. 

Come to Aberdeen — meet with Mr. Chalmers, 
printer, a facetious fellow — Mr. Ross a fine 
fellow, like Professor Tytler, — Mr. Marshal 
one of the poetce minores — Mr. Sherifi"s, author 
of " Jamie and Bess," a little decrepid body 
with some abilities — Bishop Skinner, a nonjuror, 
son of the author of " TuUochgorum," a man 
whose mild, venerable manner is the most 
marked of any in so young a man — Professor 
Gordon, a good-natured, jolly-looking professor 
— Aberdeen, a lazy town — ^near Stonhive, the 
coast a good deal romantic — meet my relations 
— Robert Burns, writer, in Stonhive, one of 
those who love fun, a gill, and a punning joke, 
and have not a bad heart — his wife a sweet 
hospitable body, without any affectation of what 
is ca'ied town-breeding. 

Tuesday. — Breakfast with Mr. Burns — lie at 

Lawrence Kirk — Album library — Mrs. a 

jolly, frank, sensible, love-inspiring widow- 
Howe of the Mearns, a rich, cultivated, but still 
unenclosed country. 

Wed?iesday. — Cross North Esk river and a 
rich country to Craigow. 

* * * * 

Go to Montrose, that finely-situated handsome 
town — breakfast at Muthie, and sail along that 
wild rocky coast, and see the famous caverns, 
I particularly the Gariepot — land and dine at 
I Arbroath — stately ruins of Arbroath Abbey — 
come to Dundee through a fertile country- 
Dundee a low-lying, but pleasant town — old 
Steeple — Tayfrith — Broughty Castle, a finelj 
; situated ruin, jutting into the Tay. 



530 



THE POETS ASSIGNMENT. 



Friday. — Breakfast with the Miss Scotts — Miss 
Bess Scott like Mrs. Greenfield — my hardship 
almost in love with her — come through the rich 
harvests and fine hedge-rows of the Carse of 
Gowrie, along the romantic margin of the 
Gi-ampian hills, to Perth — fine, fruitful, hilly, 
woody country round Perth. 

Saturday Morning. — Leave Perth — come up 
iltrathearn to Endermay — fiiie, fruitful, culti- 



vated Strath — the scene of "Besay Bell, and 
Mary Gray," near Perth — fine scenery on the 
banks of the May — Mrs. Belcher, gawcie, 
frank, affable, fond of rural sports, hunting, 
&c. — Lie at Kinross — reflections in a fit af the 
colic. 

Sunday. — Pass through a cold, barren country 
to Queensferry — dine — cross the ferry and on U 
Edinburgh. 



THE POET'S ASSIGNMENT OF HIS WORKS. 



Know all men by these presents that I Robert 
Burns of Mossgiel : whereas I intend to leave 
Scotland and go abroad, and having acknow- 
ledged myself the father of a child named Eli- 
zabeth, begot upon Elizabeth Paton in Largie- 
side : and whereas Gilbert Burns in Mossgiel, 
my brother, has become bound, and hereby 
binds and obliges himself to aliment, clothe, and 
educate my said natural child in a suitable 
manner as if she was his own, in case her 
mother chuse to part with her, and that until 
she arrive at the age of fifteen years. There- 
fore, and to enable the said Gilbert Burns to 
make good his said engagement, wit ye me to 
have assigned, disponed, conveyed and made 
over to, and in favours of, the said Gilbert 
Burns, his heirs, executors, and assignees, who 
are always to be bound in like manner, with 
himself, all and sundry goods, gear, corns, 
cattle, horses, nolt, sheep, household furniture, 
and all other moveable effects of whatever kind 
that I shall leave behind me on my departure 
from this Kingdom, after allowing for my part 
of the conjunct debt's due by the said Gilbert 
Burns and me as joint tacksmen of the farm of 
Mossgiel. And particularly without prejudice 
of the foresaid generality, the profits that may 
arise from the publication of my poems pre- 
sently in the press. And also, I hereby dispone 
and convey to him in trust for behoof of my said 
natural daughter, the copyright of said poems 
in so far as I can' dispose cf the same by law, 
after she arrives at the above age of fifteen 
years complete Surrogating and substituting 
the said Gilbert Burns my brother and his fore- 
saids in my full right,- title, room and place of 
the whole premises, with power to him to 
intromit with, and dispose upon the same at 
')leasure, and in general to do every other thing 



in the premises that I could have done myself 
before granting hereof, but always with and 
under the conditions before expressed. And I 
oblige myself to warrant this disposition and 
assignation from my own proper fact and deed 
allenarly. Consenting to the registration hereof ' 
in the books of Council and Session, or any 
other Judges books competent, therein to remain 
for preservation and constitute. 

Proculars, &c. In witness whereof I have 
wrote and signed these presents, consisting of 
this and the preceding page, on stamped paper, 
with my own hand, at the Mossgielj the twenty- 
second day of .July, one thousand seven hundred 
and eighty-six years. 

(Signed) . ROBERT BURNS. , 



'Upon the twenty-fourth day of July, one thou 
sand seven hundred and eighty-six years, I^ 
'William Chalmer, Nc tary Publick, past to th» 
Mercat Cross of Ayr head Burgh of the Sheriff 
dome thereof, and thereat I made due and law- 
ful intimation of the foregoing disposition -ani 
assignation to his Majesties lieges, that th«y 
might not pretend ignorance thereof by reading 
the same over in presence of a number of people 
assembled. Whereupon 'Williamr Crooks, writer, 
in Ayr, as attorney for the before designcQ 
Gilbert Burns, protested that the same was law- 
fully intimated, and asked and took instruments 
in my hai ds. These things were done betwisl 
the hours of ten and eleven forenoon, before 
and in presence of "William M'Cubbin, and "Wil 
liam Eaton, apprentices to the Sheriff Clere 
of Ayr, witnesses to the premises. 
(Signed) 

"William Chalmbb, N P. 

William M'Cubbin, Witness. 

William Eaton, Witness. 



GLOSSARY. 



^ The ch and gh have alvra,^ s the guttural sound. The sound of the English diphthong oo is commonly 
elled ou. The French ii, a sound which often occurs in the Scottish language, is marked oo or ui. The a, 

genuine Scottish words, except when forming a diphthong, or followed by an e mute after a single coji" 
nant, sounds generally like the broad English a in wall. The Scottish diphthong ae always, and ea very 
ten, sound like the Trench e masculine. The Scottish diphthong ey sounds like the Latin ei." 



Q^', all. 

hack, away, aloof, backwards. 
heigh, at a shy distance. 
^h'lon, above, up. 
Abref'd. abroad, in sight, to publish. 
A-lreed. in breadth. 
Ae, une. 
Aff, off. 
Aff-lwf, off-hand, extempore, 

without premeditation. 
Kfore, before. 
Aft, oft. 
Afteu, often. 
AgUy, off the right line, wrong, 

awry. ^ 

Aihlins, perhaps. 
Ain, own. 
Aim, iron, a tool of that metal, a 

mason's chisel. 
Airles, earnest money. 
Airl-2)enny, a silver penny given 

as erles or hiring money. 
Aift, quarter of the heaven, point 

of the compass. 
Agee, on one side. 
Attonr, moreover, beyond, besides. 
Aith, an oath. 
Aits, oats. 
Airer, an old horse. 
Aizle, a hut cinder, an ember of 

wood. 
Alfxke, alas. 

Alane, alone. * 

Akivart, awkward, athwart. 
Amaist, almost. 
Among, among. 
An', and, if. 
Ance, once. 
Ane, one. 
i.nent, ov "iragainst, concerning, 

about. 
niiher, another. 
le, ashes of wood, remains of a 

hearth fire, 
i'.er abroad, stirring in a lively 

01 VI nor 



Aqueesh, between. 

Aught, possession, as "in a' my 
aught," in all my possession. 

Anld, old. 

Auld-farran', auld farrant, saga- 
cious, prudent, cunning. 

Ava, at all. 

Awa, away, begone. 

Awfii', awful. 

Aidd-shoon, old shoes literally, a 
discarded lover metaphori- 
cally. 

Aumos, gift to a beggar. 

Aumo8-dish, a beggar's dish in 
which the aumos is receive.d. 

Aivn, the beard of barley, oats, <fcc. 

Aionie, bearded. 

Ayont, beyond. 



Ba', ball. 

Bahie-clouts, child's first clothes. 

Backets, ash-boards, as pieces of 

backet for removing ashes. 
Backlins, comin', coming back, 

returning. 
Baek-yett, private gate. 
Baide, endured, did stay. 
Baggie, the belly. 
Bairn, a child. 
Bairn-time, a family of children, 

a brood. 
Baith, both. 

Ballets, haUants, ballads. 
Ban, to swear. 
Bane, bone. 

Bang, to beat, to strive, to excel. 
Bannock, flat, round, soft cake. 
Bardie, diminutive of bard, 
Birejit, barefooted. ' 
Barley-hree, barley-broo, blood of 

barley, malt liquor. 
Barmie, of, or like barm, yeasty. 
Batch, a crew, a gang. 
Batts, botts. 
Bauckie-hird, the bat. 
Baudrom, a cat. 



Bauld, bold. 

Baws'nt, having a white stripe 

down the face. 
Be, to let be, to give over, to cease. 
Beets, boots. 
Bear, barley. 
Bearded-bear, barley with iU 

bristly head. 
Beastie, diminutive of beast. 
Beet, heek, to add fuel to a fire, to 

bask. 
Beld, bald. 
Belyve, by and by, presently, 

quickly. 
Ben, into the spenee or parlour. 
Benmost-hore, the remotest hole, 

the innermost recess. 
Bethankit, grace after meat 
Beuk, a book. 
Bicker, a kind of wooden dish, a 

short rapid race. 
Bickering, careering, hurrying 

with quarrelsome intent. 
Birnie, birnie ground is where 

thick heath has been burnt, 

leaving the birns, or uneon- 

sumed stalks, standing up 

sharp and stubley. 
Bie, or hield, shelter, a sheltered 

place, the sunny nook of a 

wood. 
Bien, wealthy, plentiful. 
Big, to build. 
Biggin, building, a house. 
Biggit, built. 
Bill, a bull. 
Billie, a brother, a young feJow, 

a companion. 
Bing, a heap of grain. potatoeB^ 

Ac. 
Birdie-cocks, young cocks, still b« 

longing to the brood. 
Birk, birch. 
Birkie, a clever, a forward coa- 

ceited fellow. 
Birring, the noise of partridges 

when they rise. 

(531) 



532 



GLOSSARY. 



Birsoe, .bristles. 

Hit, crisis, nick of time, place. 

Bizz, a bustle, to buzz. 

Black's the grun', as black as tlie 

ground. 
Blmtie, a shrivelled dwarf, a term 

of contempt, full of mis- 

Chi'jf. 

Dln-nit, blasted. 

"Rl.ate, bashful, sheepish. 

Hhnhe.-, bladder. 

jllaud, a flat piece of anything, to 
slap. 

Bla^din-ahoiver, a heavy driving 
niin ; a blauding signifies a 
beating. 

Bhw, to blow, to boast ; " blaw i' 
my lug,'' to flatter. 

Ileerit, bedimmed, eyes hurt with 
weeping. 

b.cer mjj een, dim my eyes. 

BUtzing, bleeze, blazing, flame. 

BUIum, idle talking fellow. 

Blether, to tall: idly. 

Bleth'rin, talking idly. 

Blink, a little while, a smiling 
look, to look kindly, to. shine 
_ by fits. 

Rli'nher, a term of contempt : it 
means, too, a lively engaging 
girl. 

Blinking smirking, smiling with 
the eyes, looking lovingly. 

Blirt and i/c(/r)e,out-burstof grief, 
with wet eyes. 

Blue-gijwn, one of those beggars 
who get annually, on the 
king's birth-day, a blue cloak 
or gown with a badge. 

Bhiid, blood. 

niijpe, a shred, a large piece. 

Bohlit, the obeisance made by a 
lady. 

Dock, to vomit, to gush intermit- 
tently. 

Backed, gushed, vomited. 

Bvdle, a copper coin of the value 
of two pennies Scots. 

Bogie, a small morass. 

Bonnie, or bonny, handsome, beau- 
tiful. 

Bonnock, a kind of thick cake of 
bread, a small jannock or loaf 
made of oatmeal. See Ban- 
nock. 

Board, a board. 

Boi e, a hole in a wall, a cranny. 

Boo:-tree, the shrub elder, planted 
much of old in hedges of barn- 
j'ards and gardens. 

iVi'-cs*, behoved, must needs, wil- 
fulness. 

Botch, blotch, an angry tumour. 

Bouniiq, drinking, making merry 
with lic[uor. 

Bowk, body. 

Bow-kail, cabbage. 

Bow-hought, out-kneed, crooked at 
the knee joint. 

^ov)t, bovdt, bended, crooked. 

Brackent, fern. 

Brae, a declivity, a precipice, the 
slope of a hill. 

Braid, broad. 



Braih, an instrument for rough- 
dressing flax. 

Brainge, to run rashly forward, to 
churn violentl}^ 

Braing't, " the horse braing't," 
plunged and fretted in the 
harness. 

Brak, broke, became insolvent. 

Branks, a kind of wooden curb for 
horses. 

Brankie, gaudy. 

Brash, a sadden illness. 

Brats, coarse clothes, rags, Ac. 

Brattle, a short race, hurry, fury. 

Braiu, fine, handsome. 

Brawlys, or brawlie, very well, 
finely, heartily, bravely. 

Braxies, diseased sheep. 

Breastie, diminutive of breast. 

Breastit, did spring up or forward ; 
the act of mounting a horse. 

Brechame, a horse-collar. 

Breckens, fern. 

Breef, an mvuluerable or irresisti- 
ble spell. 

Breeks, breeches. 

Brent, bright, clear; "a brent 
brow," a brow high and 
smooth. 

Brewin', brewing, gathering. 

Bree, juice, liquid. 

Brig, a bridge. 

Brunstane, brimstone. 

Brisket, the breast, the bosom. 

Brither, a brother. 

Brock, a badger. 

Brogue, a hum, a trick. 

Broo, broth, liquid, water. 

Broose, broth, a race at country 
weddings; he who firstreaches 
the bridegroom's house on re- 
turning from church wins the 
broose. 

Browst, ale, as much malt liquor 
as is brewed at a time. 

Brugh, a burgh. 

Bruilsie, a broil, combustion. 

Brunt, did burn, burnt. 

Brust, to burst, burst. 

Buehan-bullers, the boiling of the 
sea among the rocks on the 
coast of Buchan. 

Buckskin, an inhabitant of Vir- 
ginia. 

Buff our beef, thrash us soundly, 
give us a beating behind and 
before. 

Buff and blue, the colours of the 
Whigs. 

Buirdly, stout made, broad built 

Bum-clock, the humming beetle 
that flies in the summer even- 
ings. 

Bummin, humming as bees, buz- 
zing. • 

Bummle, to blunder, a drone, at; 
idle fellow. 

Bummler, a blunderer, one whose 
noise is greater than his work. 

Bunker, a window-seat. 

Bure, did bear. 

Burn, burnie, water, a rivulet, a 
small stream which is heard 
as it runs. 



B\,.rniewin', burn tha wind, tk4 

blacksmith. 

Burr-thistle, the thbtU o^ Sooi. 
laud. 

Bushit, dressed. 

Buskit-nest, an ornamented re«i 
dence. 

Biisle, a bustle. 

But, hot, without. 

But and ben, the country kitchet 
and parlour. 

By himself, lunatic, distracted, be- 
side "himself. 

Byke, a bee-hive, a wild bee-nest. 

Byre, a cow-house, a sheep-pen. 



Ca', to call, to name, to drive. 
Ca't, called, driven, calved. 
Cadger, a carrier. 
Cadie, or caddie, a person, a younj 

fellow, a public messenger. 
Caff, chaff. 
0".ird, a tinker, a maker of born 

spoons and toller of fortunes. 
Cairn, a loose heap of stones, a 

rustic monument. 
Calf-ward, a small enclosure fot 

calves. 
Calimanco, a certain kind of cotton 

cloth worn by ladles. 
Callan, a boy. 
Caller, fresh. 
Callet, a loose woman, a follower 

of a camp. 
Cannte, gentle, mild, dexterous. 
Cannilie, dexterously, gently. 
Cantie, or canty, cheerful, merry. 
Cantraip, a charm, a spell. 
Cap-stane, cape-stone, topmost 

stone o< the building. 
Car, a rustic cart with or without 

wheels. 
Careerin', moving cheerfully. 
Castock, the stalk of a cabbage. 
Carl, an old man. 
Carl-hemp, the male stalk of hemp, 

easily known by its superior 

strength and stature, and 

being without seed. 
Garlin, a stout old woman. 
Cartes, cards. 
Caudron, a cauldron. 
Gauk and keel, chalk and red clay 
Cauld, cold. 
Caup, a wooden drinking yessei » 

cup. 
Cavie, a heji-eoop. 
Chanter, drone of a bagpipe. 
Chap, a person, a fellow. 
Chaup, a stroke, a tilow. 
Cheek for chow, close and united 

brotherly, side by side. 
Gheekit, cheeked. 
Cheep, a chirp, to chirp. 
Chiel, or cheal, a young fellow. 
Chimla, ot chimlie, a fire-grat«i 

fire-place. 
Chimla-lug, the fire-side. 
Chirps, cries of a young bird. 
Chittering, shivering, trembling. 
Chockin, choking. 
Chow, to chew : a quid of tobao«« 
'^^cite, a brood-hen. 





GLOSSAHY. 


538 


CJiuffie, fat-faced. 


Cai'.er, the inhabitant of a cot- 


ice, practised in Scotland, 


Clachdii, a small village about a 


house, or cottage. 


called curling. 


church, a hamlet. 


Covthie, kind, loving. 


Curlie, curled, whose hair falli 


Chtise, fir claes, clothes. 


Cove, a cave. 


naturally in ringlets. 


Uunth, cloth. 


Coice, to terrify, to keep under, to 


Curling, a well-known game OE 


Clnithinrj, ch'thing. 


lop. 


the ice. 


ClnverH and havers, agreeable no' 


Coivp, to barter, to tumble over. 


Curmurring, murmuring, a slight 


sense, to talk foolishly. 


Coup the cran, to tumble a full 


rumbling noise. 


Clapper -dnps, the clapper o' t 


bucket or basket. 


Ciupin, the crupper, the runiji. 


mill ; it is now silenced. 


CowpH, tumbled. 


Cuiple, the rear. 


Clcp-dack, clapper of a mill. 


Con- rill, cowering. 


Cushat, the dove, or wood-pigeoa 


:h„tie, <:li.-ty, filthy. 


Co,cte, a colt. 


Caltij, short, a spoon broken in th« 


Ch,rk!t wrote. 


Cosie, snug. 


middle. 


Chi^^h, an idie tale. 


Crabbit, crabbed, fretful. 


Cutty Stool, or, Creejne Chair, *\a 


C'-itter. to tell little idle stories, 


Creuks, a disease of horses. 


seat of shame, stool of re- 


an idle story. 


Crack, conversation, to converse. 


pentance. 


Chiiujht. siiatidied at, laid hold of. 


to boast. 




("'.',(///. to clean, to scrape. 


Crackin', cracked, conversing, 


D. 


dum.j,/, scraped. 


conversed. 


Daddie, a father. 


C'-i!'\ ti> i^cratch. 


Craft, or rrofi, a field near a house, 


Baffin, merriment, foolishness. 


r/' ._■'/, to clothe. 


■ in old husbandry. 


Daft, merry, giddy, foolish; Da t. 


Cf"/,-. hook, snatch. 


Crai;/, e/v,,V/,>, neck. 


buckie, mad fish. 


C'i'xkin, a brood of chickens, or 


Cruikf!, cries or calls incessantly, a 


Daimen, rar«, now and then; Dau 


ducks. 


bird, the corn-rail. 


men -icker, an ear of corn oc 


tVeijs. the gad flies. 


Crambo-i-link, or crambo-jingle, 


casionally. 


Cliiikiii, " clinking down," sitting 


rhymes, doggrel verses. 


Dai7ity, pleasant, good- humoured, 


down hastily. 


Crai,k, the noise of an ungreased 


agreeable, rare. 


-JUnl-nrn-heU, the church bell; he 


wh eel— me taph orieally inhar- 


Dandered, wandered. 


who rings it ; a sort of beadle. 


monious verse. 


Darklins, darkling, without light. 


• Clips, wool-shears. 


Cranko„s, fretful, captious. 


Duud, to thrash, to abuse ; .'^aialin- 


Cliiihinadaver, idle conversation. 


Cranre,ich, the hoar-frost, called in 


showers, rain urged by wind 


Cork, to hatch, a beetle. 


Nithsdale " frost-rhyme." 


Daur, to dare; Daurt, dared. 


Clockin, hatching. 


Cra]}, a crop, to crop. 


Daurg, or Daui-k, a day's labour. 


Cloot, the hoof of a cow, sheep, 


Craiv, a crow of a cook, a rook. 


Daur, daurna, dare, dare not. 


<fcc. 


Creei, a basket, to have one's wits 


DavoG, diminutive of Davie, a« 


Clootie, a familiar name for the 


in a creel, to be crazed, to be 


Davie is of David. 


devil. N 


fascinated. 


Dawd, a large piece. 


Clour, a bump, or swelling, after 


Creshie, greasy. 


Dawin, dawning of the day. 


a blow. 


Crood, or Croud, to coo as a dove. 


Dawtit, daictet, fondled, caressed. • 


Clout;,,, repairing with cloth. 


Croon, a hollow and continued 


Dearies, diminutive of dears, 


Chi'h, clouils. 


moan ; to make a noise like 


sweethearts. 


Clii„k, tlie sound in setting down 


the low roar of a bull; to 


Dearthfu', dear, expensive. 


an empty bottle. 


hum a tune. 


Deave, to deafen. 


■oar!,,, ;yheedling. 


Crooning, humming. 


Deil-mn-care, no matter for all 


Coble, a fishing-boat. 


Crouchie, crook-backed. 


that. 


Cod, a pillow. , 
Cft, bought. 


Crouse, cheerful, courageous. 


Deleerit, delirious. 


Crously, cheerfully, coura<!;e(/ isly. 


Descrive, to describe, to perceive. 


C'fl. and ■y/'jjie a wooden dish. 


Croicdie, a composition of ^a'^^eal, 


Deuks, ducks. 


'Voi'/rt, from Kyle, a district in 


boiled water and L.tter; 


Dight, to wipe, to clean corn from 


Ayrshire, so called, saith tra- 


sometimes made fro//, the 


chaff. 


dition, from Coil, or Coilus, a 


broth of beef,muttrn, Ac. &c. 


Ding, to worst, to push, to surpass, 


Tictish monarch. 


Cromlie time, breakfast time. 


to excel. 


Collie, a general, and sometimes a 


Croulin, crawling, a deformed 


Dink, neat, lady-like. 


particular name for country 


creeping thing. 


Dinna, do not. 


curs. 


Crumniie's nicks, marks on the 


Dirl, a slight tremulous stivYe oi 


OMe-shanqie, a quarrel among 


horns of a cow. 


pain, a tremulous motion, 


dogs, an Irish row. 


Crummoek, Grummet, a COW with 


Distain, stain. 


Vommn,,),., command. 


crooked horns. 


Dizzen, a dozen. 


Coiivoijed, acco'Tipanied lovingly. 


Crummock driddle, walk slowly. 


Dochter, daughter. 


CooVd i,i her linens, cool'd in her 


leaning on a staff with a 


Doited, stupified, silly from age. 


death-shifL 


crooked head. 


Dolt, stupified, crazed; also a feci 


Coed, the cud. 


Crump-crumpin, hard and brittle, 


Donsie, unlucky, affectedly ileal 


Coof, a blockhead, a ninny. 


spoken of bread ; frozen snow 


and trim, pettish. 


Cookit. appeared and disappeared 


yielding to the foot. 


Doodle, to dandle. 


by fits. 


Crunt, a blow on the head with a 


Dool, sorrow, to lament, to mourn 


Ooo.',e'; a stallion. 


cudgel. 


Doos, doves, pigeons. 


Cooet, did cast. 


Cuddle, to clasp and caress. 


Dorty, saucy, nice. 


Voot, the ankle, a species of water- 


Cummock. a short staff, with a 


Douse, or douce, sober, wise, prn 


fowl. 


crooked head. 


dent. 


Uorbies, blood crows. 


Curch, a covering for the head, a 


Doueely, soberly, prudently. 


Oootie, a wooden dish, rough- 


kerchief. 


Dought, was or were able. 


legged. 


Gurchie, a cu-.-t-^sy, female obei- 


Doup, backside. 


Uo,-e, corps, party, clan 


sance. 


Doup-skelper, one that strikes tti 


•O-o/hV fed with oats. 


Curler, a play-^r at a game on the 


taU. 



584 


giosjs:ary. 




Ocvr and din, sullen arl sallow. 


Faddom't, fathomed, measured 


Fleech, to supplicate in a flatterin| 


Oc-iser, more pruden'.. 


with the extended arms. 


manne^-. 


Dow, am or are able, <y.a. 


Faes, foes. 


Fleechln, supplicating. 


Doipff, pithless, warUng force. 


Faem, foam of the sea. 


Fleesh, a fleece. 


Dowie, worn with grief, fatigue, 


Faiket, forgiven or excused, aba- 


Fleg, a "kick, a random blow, • 


&c., half asleep. 


ted, a demand. 


fight. 


Downa, am or are not able, can- 


Fainness, gladness, overcome with 


Flether, (o decoy by fair wordu. 


not. 


joy. 


Flethrin, flethers, flattering — 


Doylt, wearied, exhausted. 


Fairin', fairing, a present brought 


smooth wheedling words. 


Dozen, stupified, the effects of age, 


from a fair. 


Fley, to scare, to frighten. 


to dozen, to benumb. 


Fallow, fellow. 


Flichter, flichtering, *'j flu^tel U 


Drab, a young female beggar j to 


Fand, did find. 


young nestlings do Ti hen thdil 


spot, to stain. 


Farl, a cake of bread ; third part 


dam approaches. 


Drap, a drop, to drop. 


of a cake. 


Flinders, shreds, broken pieces. 


Tha^tping, dropping. 


Fash, trouble, care, to trouble, to 


Flingin-tree, a piece of timber 


Draunting, drawling, speaking 


care for. 


hung by way of pai tition be- 


with a sectarian tone. 


Fasheoiis, troublesome. 


tween two horses in a stable; 


Dreep, to ooze, to drop. 


Fasht, troubled. 


a flail. 


Dreigh, tedious, long- about it, lin- 


Fasten e'en, Fasten's even. 


Flisk, flisky, to fret at the yoke. 


gering. 


Faught, fight. 


Flisket, fretted. 


Dribble, drizzling, trickling. 


Faugh, a single furrow, out of lea, 


Flitier, to vibrate like the wings 


Driddle, the motion of one who 


fallow. 


of small birds. 


tries to dance but moves the 


Fauld; and Fald, a fold for sheep. 


Flittering, fluttering, vibrating, 


middle only. 


to fold. 


moving tremulously from 


Drift, a drove, a flight of fowls, 


Faut, fault. 


place t"o place. 


snow moved by the wind. 


Fawsont, decent, seemly. 


Flunkie, a servant in livery. 


Drod.du)n, the breech. 


Feal, loyal, steadfast. 


Flyte, fluting, scold; flyting, 


Drone, part of a bagpipe, the 


Fearfu', fearful, frightful. 


scolding. 


chanter. 


Fear't, affrighted. 


Foor, hastened. 


Droop ruini^l't, that droops at *,he 


Feat, neat, spruce, clever. 


Foord, a ford. 


crupper. . 


Fecht, to fight. 


Forbears, forefathers. 


Dronkit, wet. 


Fechtin', fighting. . 


Fbrbye, "besides. 


Drouth, thirst, drought. 


Feck andfek, number, quantity. 


For/aim, distressed, worn out. 


Drucl-en, drunken. 


Fecket, an under-waistcoat. 


jaded, forlorn, destitute. 


Dnmily, muddy. 


Feckfu', large, brawny, stout. 


Forgather, to meet, to encounter 


Drummock, or Drammock, meal 


Feckless, puny, weak, silly. 


with. 


and water mixed, raw. 


Feckly, mostly. 


Forgie*, to forgive. 


Drunt, pet, sour humour. 


Feg, a fig. 


Forinawed, worn out. 


j Dub, a small pond, a hollow filled 


Fegs, faith, an exclamation. 


Forjesket, jaded with fatigue. 


j with rain water. 


Feide, feud, enmity. 


Fou', full, drunk. , 


1 Duds, rags, clothes. 


Fell, keen, biting; the flesh im- 


Foughten, forfoughten, troubled, 


1 Duddle, ragged. 


mediately under the skin; 


fatigued. 


j Duny-dang, worsted, pushed. 


level moor. 


Foul-thief, the devil, tha arch- 


! stricken. 


Felli/, relentless. 


fiend. 


j Dwited, throbbed, beaten. 


Fend, Fen, to make a shift, con- 


Fouth, plenty, enough, or mora 


Dush-dunsh, to push, or butt as a 


trive to live. 


than enough. 


1 ram. 


Ferlie or ferley, to wonder, a won- 


Fow, a measure, a bushel: also 


j Dusht, overcome with superstitious 


der, a term of contempt. 


a pitchfork. 


! fear, to drop down suddenly. 


Fetch, to pull by fits. 


Frae, from. 


Dyvor, bankrupt, or about to be- 


Fetch't, pull'd intermittently. 


Freath, froth, the frothing of ale 


come one. 


Fey, strange; one marked for 


in the tankard. 




death, predestined. 


Frien', friend. 


E. 


Fidge, to fidget, fidgeting. 


Frosty-calker, the heels and front 


E'e, the eye. 


Fidgin-fain, tickled with pleasure. 


of a horse-shoe, turned sharp- 


j Een, the eyes, the evening. 


Fient, fiend, a petty oath. 


ly up for riding on an icy 


Eeiree, the eyebrow. 


Ficn ma care, the devil may 


road. 


Eeivin', the evening. 


care. 


Fu', full. 


Eerie, frighted, haunted, dreading 


Fier, sound, healthy ; a brother, a 


F%id, the scut or tail of the ^are. 


spirits. 


friend. 


coney, <tc. 


Eild, old age. 


Fierrie, bustle, activity. 


Fvff. to blow intermittently 


fJibuck, the elbow. 


Fissle, to make a rustling noise, to 


Ftl-hant, full-hande'd; said of '■ve 


Eldritch, ghastly, frightful, elvish. 


fidget, bustle, fuss. 


well to live in the world. 


r»', end. 


Fit, foot. 


Funnie, full of merriment. 


E'ibrmjh, Edinburgh. 


Fittie-lan, the nearer horse of 


Fur-ahin, the hindmost horse on 


« Eneugh, and aneuch, enough. 


the hindmost pair in the 


the right hand when plough- 


Especial, especially. 


plough. 


ing. 


Ether-stone, stone formed by ad- 


Fizz, to make a hissing noise, fuss. 


Fiirder, further, succeed. 


ders, an adder bead. 


disturbance. 


Furm, a form, a bench. 


Etile, to try, attempt, aim. 


Flaffen. the motion of rags in the 


Fusionless, spiritless, without sap 


Eydent, diligent. 


wind; of wings. 


or soul. 




Flninen, flannel. 


Fyke, trifling cares, to be in a ftis, 


E. 


Flandrekins, foreign generals, sol- 


about trifles. 


Fa', fall, lot, to fall, fate. 


dierf of Flanders. 


Fyte, to soil, to dirty. 


Fa' thai,\^ enjoy, to try, to inherit 


Flang, threw with violence. 


Fylt, soiled, dirtied. 



GLOSSAEY, 



53o 



G. 


Glieh o' Ian', a portion of ground. 


Guidman and gnidvdfe, the mastei 




The ground belonging to a 


and mistress of the house; 


ifah, the mouth, to speak boldly or 


manse is called "the glieb," 


young guidman, a man newly 


pertly. 


or portion. 


married. 


Gaherlinizie, walletnian, or tinker. 


Glint, glintin', to peep. 


Gidly or Gullie, a large knife. 


Gae, to go ; grted, went; gane or 


Glinted by, went brightly past. 


Gulrnvage, joyous mischief. 


c/aea. gone ; ffavn, going. 


Gloamin, the twilight. 


Gumlie, muddy. 


Gaet or gate, way, manner, road. 


Gloamin-ahot, twilight-musing; a 


Gumption, discernment, know 


Gairti, p.n.rts of a lady's gown. 


shot in the twilight. 


ledge, talent. 


Gang, to go, to walk. 


tflojor, to stare, to look ; a stare, 


Gusty, gust/a', tasteful. 


Gangrel, a wandering person. 


a look. 


Gut-ecraper, a fiddler. 


Qa^^, to make, to force to ; gar't, 


Glowran, amazed, looking suspi- 


Gutcher, grandsire. 


forced to. 


ciously, gazing. 




Oarten, a garter. 


Glum, displeased. 


H. 


Gcu,h, wise, sagacious, talkative, 


Gor-eocks, the red-game, red-cock. 


Ha', hall. 


to converse. 


or moor-cock. 


Ba' Bible, the great Bible that lioi 


^a/!!/, failing in body. 


Gowan, the flower of the daisy, 


in the hall. 


Gaticy, jolly, large, plump. 


dandelion, hawkweed, &c. 


Eaddin', house, home, dwelling 


ffaHrf and (/'(rf, a rod or goad. 


Gowany, covered with daisies. 


place, a possession. 


Gaudsn.an, one who drives the 


Goavan, walking as if blind, or 


Hue, to have, to accept. 


horses at the \ lough. 


without an aim. 


Haen, had (the participle of has) 


Gaim, gting.. 


Gowd, gold. 


haven. 


Gmmted, yawned, l')nged. 


Gowl, to howl. 


Haet, fient haet, a petty oath oi 


Gawkie, a thoughtless person, and 


Gowff, a fool; the game of golf, 


negation; nothing. 


something weak. 


to strike, as the bat does the 


Haffet, the temple, the side of th^ 


Gaylies, gylie, pretty well. 


ball at golf. 


head. 


Gear, riches, goods of any kind. 


Gowk, term of contempt, the 


Hafflim, nearly half, ■ partly, not 


Geek, to toss the head in wanton- 


cuckoo. 


fully grown. 


ness or scorn. 


Grane or grain, a groan, to groan ; 


Hag, a gulf in mosses and moora^ 


Ged, a pike. 


graining, groaning. 


moss-ground. 


Gentle-", great folks. 


Graip, a pronged instrument for 


Haggis, a kind of pudding, boiled 


Gent//, elegant. 


cleaning cowhouses. 


in the stomach of a cow, or 


Geui'die, George, a guinea, called 


Graith, accoutrements, furniture. 


sheep. 


Geordie from the head of 


dress. 


Hain, to spare, to save, to lay out 


King George. 


Grannie, grandmother. 


at interest. 


(let and geut, a child, a young 


Grape, to grope ; grapet, groped. 


Hain'd, spared; hain'd gear, 


one. 


Great, grit, intimate, familiar. 


hoarded money. 


Ghaiat, ghalitis, a ghost. 


Gree, to agree ; to bear the gree, to 


Hairst, harvest. 


Gie, to give; gied, gave; gien, 


be decidedly victor; gree't, 


Haith, a petty oath. 


given. 


agreed. 


Haivers, nonsense, speaking with- 


Gf/He, diminutive of gift. 


Green-grnjf, green grave. 


out thought. 


Giglefii, laua'hing maidens. 


Gruenome, loathsomely, grim. 


Hal', or hald, an abiding place. 


Gillie, gilhck, diminutive of gill. 


Greet, to shed tears, to weep; 


Hale, or haill, whole, tight, heal- 


Gilpeij, a half-grown, half-inform- 


greetin', weeping. 


^ thy. 


ed boy or girl, a romping lad, 


Grey -neck-quill, a quill unfit for a 


Hallan, a particular partition -wall 


a hoyden. 


pen. 


in a cottage, or more pro- 


Ginimer, an ewe two years old, a 


Griens, longs, desires. 


perly a seat of turf at tbe 


contemptuous term for a wo- 


Grieves, stewards. 


outside. 


man. 


Grippit, seized. 


Hallowmass, Hallow-eve, 31st Oc- 


Gin, if, against. 


Groanin-Maut, drink for the cum- 


tober. 


Gipsey, a young girl. 


mers at a lying-in. 


Haly, holy; "haly-pool," holy 


Girdle, a round iron plate on 


Groot, to get the whistle of one's 


well with healing qualities. 


which oat-cake is fired. 


groat ; to play a losing game, 


Hame, home. 


Qirn, to grin, to twist the features 


to feel the consequences of 


-Hammered, the noise of feeJ Uks 


in rage, agony, <fcc.; grin- 


one's folly. 


tlie din of hammers. 


ning. 


Groset, a gooseberry. 


Han'a breed, hand's" breadth. 


Cihz, a neriwig, the face. 


Grnmph, a grunt, to grunt. 


Hanks, thread as it comes from 


Glaikit, inattentive, foolish. 


Grumphie, Grumphin, a sow ; the 


the measuring reel, quaiiti- 


jla-'ve, a sword. 


snorting of an angry pig. 


ties, <fec. 


GWizie, glittering, smooth, like 


Grun', ground. 


Hansel-throne, throne when firal 


glass. 


Grnnstone, a grindstone. 


occupied by a king. 


Gl-ium<,d, grasped, snatched at 


Gruntle, the phiz, the snout, a 


Hap, an outer garment, mantle, 


eagerly. 


grunting noise. 


plaid, &c. ; ta wrap, to cover, 


Gi.'ran. a poutherie girran, a little 


Grunzie, a mouth which pokes 


to hap. 


vigorous animal ; a horse 


out like that of a pig. 


Harigals, heart, liver, and lights 


rather old, but yet active 


Grii-thie, thick, of thriving growth. 


of an animal. 


when heated. 


Glide, guid, giihls, the Supreme 


Hap-shackled, when a fore Ana 


Gled, a hawk. 


Being, good, goods. 


hind foot of a ram are fastened 


Gleg, sharp, ready. 


Gude anld-has-been, was once ex- 


together to prevent leaping 


Gley, a squint, to squint; a-gley, 


cellent. 


he is said to be hap-shackled. 


off at a side, wrong. 


Guid-mornin', good-morrow. 


A wife is called "the kirk' 


Glcyde, an old horse. 


Guid-e'en, good evening. 


hap-shackle." 


Qlib-gahhit, that speaks smoothly 


Guid/ather and guidmother, father- 


Happer, a hopper, the hoppei oi 


and readily. 


in-law, and mother-in-law. 


a, mill. 



636 



GLOSSAEY. 



Bvupping, hopping, 

Hap-step-an' -loup, hop, step, and 
leap. 

Harkit, hearkened. 

Uarn, a very coarse linen. 

Uash, a fellow who knows not how 
to act with propriety. 

HuMit, hastened. 

Hand, to hold. 

Uauyhs, low-lying, rich land, 
Tali ays. 

Haurl, to drag, to pull violently. 

Uaurlin, tearing off, pulling 
roughly. 

llaver-meal, oatmeal. 

Haveril, a half-witted person, half- 
witted, one who habitually 
talks in a foolish or incohe- 
rent manner. 

Hamnn, good manners, decorum, 
good sense. 

Hawkie, a cow, properly one with 
a white face. 

Jeapit, heaped. 

Healaome, healthful, wholesome. 

Hearse, hoarse. 

UeutJier, heath. 

Hech, oh strange! an exclamation 
during heavy work. 

Hecht, promised, to foretell some- 
thing that is to be got or 
given, foret-old, the thing fore- 
told, offered. 

Heckle, a board in which are fixed 
a number of sharp steel 
prongs upright for dressing 
hemp, flax, &e. 

Hee halou, words used to soothe a 
child. 

Heels-oivre-gowdie, topsy-turvy, 
turned the bottom upwards. 

Heeze, to elevate, to rise, to lift. 

Hellim, the rudder or helm. 

Herd, to tend flocks, one who 
tends flocks. 

Eerrin', a herring. 

Herry, to plunder; most properly 
to plundgr birds' nests. 

Herryment, plundering, devasta- 
tion. 

Hersel-Mrsel, a flock of sheep, 
also a herd of cattle of any 
sort. 

Het, hot, heated. 

Heitgh, a crag, a ravine ; coal- 
heugh, a coal-pit ; lowin heugh, 
a blazing pit. 

Hilch, hilchin', to halt, halting, 

Einey, honey. 

Ming, to hang. 

Bi^ple, to walk crazily, to walk 
lamely, t" creep. 

Bvifit, dry, chapt, barren. 

Hitch t, a loop, made a knot. 

Hizzie, huzzry, a young girl. 

Boddin, the mo'tion of a husband- 
man riding on a cart-horse, 
humble. 

Eoddin-gray, woollen cloth of a 
coarse quality, made by min- 
gling one black fleece with a 
dozen white ones. 

Haggle, -a twc-year-old sheep. 

Hog-9corti a <<istance Bne k curl- 



ing drawn across the rink. 

Wljen a stone fails to cross it, 

a cry is raised of " A hog, a 

hog 1" and it is removed. 
Hog-shouther, a kind of horse-play 

by justling with the shoulder ; 

to justle. 
Hoodie-craw, a blood crow, corbie. 
Hool, outer skin or case, a nutshell, 

a pea-husk. 
Hoolie, slowly, leisurely. 
Hoard, a hoard, to hoard. 
Hoordit, hoarded. 
Horn, a spoon made of horn. 
Hornie,. one of the many names 

of the devil. 
Host, or hoast, to cough. 
Hostin, coughing. 
Hotch'd, turned topsy-turvy, 

blended, ruined,- moved. 
Houghmagaiidie, loose behaviour. 
Hoidlet, an owl. 
Housie, diminutive of house. 
Hove, hoved, to heave, to swell, 
Howdie, a midwife. 
Howe, hollow, a hollow or dell. 
Hoiutbackit, sunk in the back, 

spoken of a horse» 
Howff, a house of resort. 
Hoiok, to dig. 
Howkit, digged. 
Howkin', digging deep. 
Hoy, Iwy't, to urge, urged. 
Hoyae, a pull upwards. . " Hoyse a 

creel," to raise a basket; hence 

" hoisting creels." 
Hoyte, to amble crazily. 
Haghoc, diminutive of Hughie, as 

Hughie is of Hugh. 
Hums and hankers, mumbles and 

seeks to do what he cannot 

perform. 
Hunkers, kneeling and falling back 

on the hams. 
Hurcheon, a hedgehog. 
Hurdies, the loins, the crupper. 
Hushion, a cushion, also a stock- 
ing wanting the foot. 
Huchyalled, to move with a hilch. 



Icker, an ear of corn. 
leroe, a great grandchild. 
Ilk, or ilka, each, every. 
Ill-deedie, mischievous. 
Rl-willie, ill-natured, malicious, 

niggardly. 
Ingine, genius, ingenuity. * 
Ingle, fire, fireplace. 
Ingle-low, light from the fire, flame 

from the hearth. 
I rede ye, I advise ye, I warn ye. 
Tse, I shall or will. 
Ither, other, one another. 



Jad, jade ; also a familiar term 
among country folks for a 
giddy young girl. 
Jauk, to dally, to trifle, 
Jaukin', trifling, dallying, 
Jauner, talking, and not always 
to the purpose. 



Jaiip, a jerk of water; to jerk, M 
agitated water. 

Jaw, coarse raillery, to pour ouT» 
to shut, to jerk as water. 

Jillet, a jilt, a giddy girl. 

Jimp, to jump, slender in th« 
waist, handsome. 

Jink, to dodge, to turn & corner; 
a sudden turning, a corner. 

Jink an' diddle, m'tving to musio, 
motion of a fiddler's elbow. 
Starting here and there with 
a tremulous movement. 

Jinker, that turns quickly, a gay 
sprightly girl. 

Jinkin', dodging, the quick motion 
of the bow on the fiddle. 

Jirt, a jerk, the emission of water, 
to squirt. 

Jocteleg, a kind of knife. 

Jouk, to stoop, to bow the head, to 
conceal. 

Jew, to jow, a verb, which in 
eludes both the swinging mo- 
tion and pealing sound of a 
large bell; also the undula- 
tion of water. 

Jundie, to justle, a push with the 
elbow. 



Kae,,SL, daw. 

Kail, colewort, a kind of broth. 
Kailnmt, the steru of colewort. 
Kah'., fowls, &c., paid as rent by a 

farmer. 
Kehars, rafters. 
Kehbiick, a- cheese. 
Keckle, joyous cry; to cackle as a 

hen. 
Keek, a keck, to peep. 
Kelpies, a sort of mischievous 

water-spirit, said to haunt 

fords and ferries at night, es- 
pecially in storms. 
Ken, to know; ken'd or ken't, 

knew. 
Kennin, a small matter. 
Ket-Ketty, matted, a fleece of 

wool. 
Kiaught, carking, anxiety, to be 

in a flutter. 
Kill, to truss up the clothes. 
Kimmer, a young girl, a gossip. 
Kin', kindred. 
Kin', kind. 
Kiiiy'K-huod, a certain part of tha 

entrails of an ox. 
Kintra, kintrie, country. 
Kirn, the harvest supper, a chura 
Kiraen, to christen, to baptize. 
Kist, chest, a shop-counter. 
Kitchen, anything that eat? with 

bread, to serve fcr soup, 

gravy. • 
Kittle, to tickle, ticklish 
Kittling, a young cat. The ace 

of diamonds is called amo".g 

rustics the kittlin's e'e. 
Knaggie, like knags, or points ol 

rocks. 
Knappin- hammer, a hammer foi 

breaking stones ; knap, tc 

strike or break. 



ULOSSAliY. 



537 



Knurlin, crooked but strong, 


Lint-white, a linnet, flaxen. 


Mawin, mowing; maun, mowacl, 


knotty. . 


Loan, the place of milking. 


maw'd, mowed. 


Knowe, a email, round hillock, a 


Loaning, lane. 


Mawn, a small basket, without « 


knoll. 


Loof, the palm of ike hand. 


handle. 


Kuittle, to cuddle J kuitUn, cud- 


Loot, did let. 


Meere, a mare. 


dling, fondling. 


Looves, the plural of loof. 


Mclancholious, mCiUrnful. 


Kye, cows. 

Kyle, a district in Ayrshire. 

Kyt^, the belly. 

Xythe, to discover, to show one's 

86 f. 


Losh man ! rustle exclamation 


Melder, a load of corn, Ac, sent te 


modified from Lord man. 


the mill to be giound. 


Loun, a fellow, a ragamuffin, a 


3Iell, to be intimate, to meddle, 


woman of easy virtue. 


also a mallet for poundiEg 


Loup, leap, startled with pain. 


barley in a stone trough. 




Louper-like, lan-louper, a stranger 


Melvie, to soil with meal. 


L, 


of a suspected character. 


Men', to mend. 




Lowe, a flame. 


Mense, good manners, decorum. 


ttahour, thrash. 


Lowin', flaming; lowin-drouth, 


Men.ie/exx, ill-bred, rude, impudent 


Laddie, diminutive of lad. 


burning desire for drink. 


Merle, the blackbird. 


Laggen, the 'angle between tht 


Lcorie, abbreviation of Lawrence. 


Mexnin, a small ilog. 


side and the bottom of a 


Loivse, to loose. 


Middm, a dunghill. 


wooden dish. 


Lowned, unbound, loosed. 


Middin-crceh, dung-baskets, pan. 


Laigh, low. 


Lug, the ear. 


niers in which horses carry 


Lairing, lairie, wading, and sink- 


Liig of the law, at the judgment- 


manure. 


ing in snow, mud, &c., miry. 


seat. 


Middin-hole, a gutter at the hot-' 


Laith, loath, impure. 


Lugget, having a handle. 


tom of a dunghill. 


Laitlifu', bashful, sheepish, ab- 


Luggie, a small wooden dish, with 


Milkin -shiel, a place where cows 


stemious. 


a handle. 


or ewes are brought to bo 


Lallans, Scottish dialect, Low- 


Lum, the chimney; lum-head, 


milked. 


lands. 


chimney-top. 


Mini, prim, affectedly meek. 


Lambie, diminutive of lamb. 


Lunch, a large piece of cheese. 


Mim-mou'd, gentle-mouthed. 


Lammas moon, harvest-moon. 


flesh, Ac. 


Min', to remember. 


Lampit, a kind of shell-fish, , a 


Lunt, a column of smoke, to smoke. 


Minnwae, minuet. 


limpet. 


to walk quickly. 


Muid't, mind it, resolved, intend 


Lan', land, estate. 


Lyart, of a mixed colour, gray. 


ing, remembered. 


Lan'-afore, foremost horse in the 


. 


Minnie, mother, dam. 


plough. 


M. 


Mirk, dark. 


Lan'-ahin, hindmost horse in the 




MtBca', to abuse, to call names; 


plough. 


Mae, and mair, more. 


mie«a'd, abused. 


Lane, lone ; my lane, thy lane, &c., 


3/aggot'8-meat, food for the worms. 


Mischanter, accident. 


myself alone. 


Mahoun, Satan. 


Misleard, mischievous, unman- 


Lanely, lonely. 


Mailen, a farm. 


nerly. 


Lang, long ; to think lang, to long. 


Manet, most, almost. 


Misteuk, mistook. 


to weary. 


31ai8tly, mostly, for the greater 


Mither, mother. 


Lap, did leap. 


part. 


Mixtie-maxtie, confusedly mixed. 


Late and air, late and early. 


3Tak', to make ; makin', making. 


mijh-masJi. 


Lave, the rest, the remainder, the 


Mally, Molly, Mary. 


Moistify, moistified, to moisten, to 


others. . 


Mang, among. 


soak; moistened, soaked. 


Laverock, the lark. 


Manse, the house cf the parish 


Mons-meg, a large piece of ord- 


Lawlan', lowland. 


minister is called "the 


nahce, to be seen at the Castle 


Lay my dead, attribute my death. 


Manse." 


of Edinburgh, composed of 


Leal, loyal, true, faithful. 


Manteele, a maiitle. 


iron bars welded together and 


Lear, learning, lore. 


Mark, marks. This and several 


then hooped. 


Lee-lang, live-long. 


other nouns which in Eng- 


Moots, earth. 


Leekome luve, happy, gladsome 


lish require an s to form the 


Mony, or monie, many. 


love. 


plural, are in Scotch, like the 


Moop, to nibble as a sheep. 


Leeze wi« a phrase of congratula- 


words sheep, deer, the same 


Moorlan, of or belongiiig to ttoort 


tory endearment ; I am happy 


in both numbers. 


Morn, the next day, to-morrow. 


in thee or proud of thee. 


Mark, merk, a Scottish coin, value 


Mou, the mouth. 


later ^ a thre 3-proEged and barb- 


thirteen shillings and four- 


Mondiwort, a mole. 


ed da-t for striking fish. 


pence. 


Mousle, diminutive of m'»'is%. 


iK, did !augh. 
k, a look, to look. 


Marled, party-coloured. 


Muckle, or mickle, great, big, 


Mai^s year, the year 1715. Called 


much. 


'tt, oastra;ed. 


Mar's year from the rebel- 


Muses-siank, muses-rill, a stank, 


% ticket, beat, thrashen. 


lion of Erskine, Earl of 


slow-flowing water. 


, sky, firmament. 


Mar. 


Mtmie, diminutive of muse. 


hily, sneeringly, to sneer at, to 


Martial chuck, the soldier's ^amp- 


Muslin-kail, broth, composed sin. 


undervalue. 


comrade, female comparion. 


ply of water, shelled ban 


t^ilt, a ballad, a tune, to sing. 


Mashlum, mixed corn. 


ley, and greens; thin p(oi 


Limmer, a kept mistress, a strum- 


Mask, to mash, as malt, Ac, to in- 


broth. 


pet. 


fuse. 


Mutchkin, an English pint. 


Limp't, limped, hobbled. 


Maskin-pat, teapot. 


3Jyscl, myself. 


Link, to trip along; linkin, trip- 


Maukin, a hare. 




ping along* 


Maun, mauna, must, must not. 


N. 


Linn, a waterfall, a cascade. 


Ifaut, malt. 




Unt, flax ; lint H tlw bell flax in 


Mavis, the thrush. 


Na', noj not, nor. 


ftower. 


Maw, to mow. 


Xae, or na, no, not anyi 



538 



GLOSSAEY. 



Nucth; ng, or naiihing, nothing. 


Phraisin, flattering. 


Ramstam, thoughtless, forwaru. 


Nmg, a horse, a nag. 


Pibroch, a martial air. 


Randie, a scolding sturdy beggai 


Nit'ne, none. 


Pickle, a small quantity, one grain 


a s*hrew. 


Najypy, ale, to be tipsy. 


of corn. 


Rantin', joyous. 


Weyhcldt, neglected. 


Pigmy-scraper, little fiddler; a 


Raploch, properly a coarse clotl\ 


Neeior, a neighbour. 


term of contempt for a bad 


but used for coarse. 


Neiik, nook. 


player. 


Rarely, excellently, very well. 


Ncist, next. 


Pint-stoup, a two-quart measure. 


Rash, a rush; rash-bmc, a bush of 


Nieve, nief, the fist. 


Pine, pain, uneasiness. 


rushes. 


Nievefu', handful. 


Pingle, a small pan for warming 


Ration, a rat. 


Niffer, an exchange, to barter. 


children's sops. 


Raucle, rash, stout, feailess, rook' 


Niger, a negro. 


PlacR, an old Scotch coin, the 


less. 


Niiie-tailed cat, a hangmao's whip. 


third part of an English 


Raught, reached. 


Nit, a nut. 


penny. 


Raw, a row. 


Norland, of or belonging to the 


Plaekless, pennyless, without mo- 


Rax, to stretch. 


north. 


ney. 


Ream, cream, to cream. 


Notic't, noticed. 


Plaidie, diminutive of plaid. 


Reamin', brimful, frothing. 


Nowte, black cattle. 


Platie, diminutive of plate. 


Reave, take by force. 




Plew, or pleugh, a plough. 


Rebute, to repulse, rebuke. 


0. , 


Pliskie, a trick. ' 


Reek, to heed. 


0', of. 


Phunrose, primrose. 


Rede, counsel, to counsel, to dis. 


O'ergang, overbearingness, to treat 


Pock, a meal-bag. 


course. 


with indignity, literally to 


Poind, to %eize on cattle, or take 


Red-peats, burning turfs. 


tread. 


the goods as the laws of Scot- 


Red-wat-shod, walking in blood 


O'erlay, an upper cravat. 


land allow, for rent, Ac. 


over the shoe-tops. 


Ony, or oriie, any. 


Poorteth, poverty. 


Red-ioud, stark mad. 


Or, is often used for ere, before. 


Posie, a nosegay, a garland. 


Ree, half drunk, fuddled; a ret 


Orra-duddies, superfluous rags, 


Pou, piou'd, to pull, pulled. 


yaud, a wild horse. 


old clothes. 


Pouk, to pluck. 


Reek, smoke. 


0% of it. 


Pouasie, a hare or cat. 


Reekin', smoking. 


Oarie, drooping, shivering. 


Pause, to pluck with the hand. 


Reekit, smoked, smoky. 


Onrael, ournelti, ourselves. 


Pout, a polt, a chick. 


Reeatit, stood restive; stunted, 


Outlers, outliers ; cattle unhoused. 


Poic't, did pull. 


withered. 


OiLier, oiors, over. 


Poutherey, fiery, active. 


Remead, remedy. 


Otore-hip, striking with a fore- 


PoHthery, like powder. 


Requite, requited. 


hammer by bringing it with 


Pow, the head, the skull. 


Restricked, restricted. 


• a swing over the hip. 


, Potr/nie, a little horse, a pony. 


Rew, to smile, look affectionately,' 


Owseii, oxen. 


Powther, or pouther, gunpowder. 


tenderly. 


Oxtered, carried or supported un- 


Preclair, supereminent. 


Rickles, shocks o^ corn, stocks. 


der the arm. 


Preen, a pin. 


Riddle, instrument for .purifying 




Prcnt, printing, prints 


corn. 


P. 


Prie, to taste ; prie'd, tasted. 


Rtef-randies, men who take the 




Prief, proof. 


property of others, accom- 


Pack, intiinate, familiar: twelve 


Prig, to cheapen, to dispute ; prig- 


panied by violence and rude 


stone of wool. 


gin,, cheapening. 


words. 


Paidle, paidlen, to walk.with diffi- 


Primsie, demure, precise. 


Rig, a ridge. 


culty, as if in water. 


Propone, to lay down, to propose. 


Rin, to run, to melt ; rinnin', run- 


Paineh, paunch. 


Piind, pnnd o' toio, pound, pound 


ning. 


Paitrick, a partridge. 


weight of the refuse of flax. 


Rink, the course of the stones, a 


Pa?i^, to cram. 


Pyet, a magpie. 


term in curling on ice. 


Parle, courtship. 


Pyle, a pi/le, a' caff, a single grain 


Rip, a handful of unthreshed corn. 


Parishen, parish. 


of chaff. 


Ripp>le8, pains in the back and 


Parritch, oatmeal pudding, a 


Pystle, epistle. 


loins, sounds which usher in 


well-known Scotch drink. 




death. 


Prr^ did put, a pot. 


Q. 


Rijjpliii-kame, instrument for 


PoMls, or pettle, a small spade to 


dressing flax. 


clean the plough. . 


Qnat, quit. 


Riskit, a noise like the tearing of 


Paughty, proud, haughty. 


Qitak, the cry of a duck. 


roots. 


Pauky, cunning, sly. 


Queoh, a drinking-cup made of 


Roehin', a denomination fc>» a 


Pnyt, paid, beat. 


wood with two handles. 


friendly visit. In former 


Peat-reek, the smoke of burning 


Quey, a cow from one to two years 


times young women met with 


turf, a bitter exhalation. 


old, a heifer. 


their distaffs during the wini 


whisky. 


Qvines, queans. 


ter evenings, to sing, and spin, 


Peril, to fetch the breath shortly, 


Quakin, quaking. 


and be merry ; these were 


as in an asthma. 




called "rockings." 


Pechan, the crop, the stomach. 


R. 


Roke, distaff. 


PecMn, respiring with difficulty. 




Rood, stands likewise for the plu- 


Pennie, riches. 


Eagweed, herb-ragwort. 


ral, roods. 


Pet, a domesticated sheep, &c., a 


RaiUe, to rattle, nonsense. 


Boon, a shred, the selvage of wool 


favourite. 


Pair, to roar. 


len cloth. 


Pettle, to cherish. 


Baize, to madden, ic inflame. 


Roose, to praise, to commend. 


Pkilabeg, the kilt. 


Ramfeezled, fatigued, overpower- 


Roun', round, in the circle of 


^hraise, fair speeches, flattery, to 


ed. 


neighbourhood. 


flatter. 


Rampin', raging. 


Boupet, hoarse^ as with a cold. 





GLOSSARY. 


539 


Bote, to roll, to rap, to roll as 


Shaver, a. humorous wag, a barber. 


Sma', small. 


water. 


Shavie, to do an ill turn. 


Smeddum, dust, powder, mettle, 


Row't, rolled, wrapped. 


Sliaic, to show ; a small wood in a. 


sense, sagacity. 


Eowte, to low, to bellow. 


hollow place. 


Smiddy, smithy. 


Roicth, plenty. 


Sheep-shavk, to think one's self nae 


Smirking, good-natured, wiaking. 


Eowtin', lo-sfing. 


sheep-shank, to be conceited. 


Smoor, smoored, to smother, smo- 


Hczet, rosiTi, 


Sherra-muh; Sheritf-Muii, the fa- 


thered. 


Rumhh-g'.mption, rough common- 


mous b-'^tle of. 1715. 


Smotttie, smutty, obscene; smoutu 


sevie. 


Sheugh, a du<h, a trenrb, a sluice. 


phiz, sooty aspect. 


Eun-deils, downright devils. 


Shiel, shealinij, a shepherd's cot- 


Smytrie, a numcrr-i collection of 


Hun^, a cudgel. 


tage. 


small indiviauals. 


Runt, Ae stem of colewort or cab- 


Skill, shrill. 


Snapper, mistake. 


bage. 


Shog, a shock, a push off at one 


Snash, abuse. Billingsgate, imper 


Bunkied, wrinkled. 


side. 


tinence. 


HiUh, a won-m's name, the book 


Shoo, ill to please, ill to fit. 


Snniu, snow, to snow. 


so •?a'le'', sorrow. 


Shool, a shovel. 


Snaw-broo, melted snow. 


Ryke, reaci. 


Shoon, shoes. 


Snawie, snowy. 




Shore, to offer, to threaten. 


Snap, to lop, to cut off. 


S. 


Shor'd, hall' offered and threat- 


Sued-hesoms, to cut brooms. 


Sie, so. 


ened. * 


Sneeshin, snuff. 


Saft, .«oft 


Shouther,. the shoulder. 


Sneeshiu-mill, a snuff-box. 


Sair, to servo, a sore j sairie, sor- 


Shot, one traverse of the shuttle 


Snell and snelly, bitter, biting) 


rowful. 


from side to side of the web. 


snelleHt, bitterest. 


floirly, sorely. 


Sic, such. 


Snick-drau-iiig, trit'k, contriving 


Sair't, served. 


Sicker, sure, Steady. 


Snick, the latcbet uf a door. 


S'D-k, a shirt. 


Sideliiis, sideling, slanting. 


Snirt, snirtle, concealed laughter, 


Sarkit, provided in shirts. 


Silkcn-snood, a" fillet of silk, a 


to breathe the nostrils in a 


Saiyh. willow. 


token of virginity. 


displeased manner. 


Sangh-iroodies, withies, made of 


Siller, silver, money, white. 


Snoot, one whose spirit is broken 


willows, now supplanted by 


Simmer, summer. 


with oppressive slavery; to 


ropes and chains. 


Sin, a son. 


submit tamely, to sneak. 


Saul, soul. 


Sinsipte, since then. 


Snoove, to go smoothly and con- 


Saiiinoiit, ralmon. 


Skaith, to damage, to injure, in- 


stantly, to sneak. 


SaiD't, snutiet, saint; to varnish. 


jury. 


Snoivk, snowkit, to scent or snuff 


Saut, salt. 


Skeiyh, proud, nice, saucy, met- 


as a dog, scented, snuffed. 


SaiD. to sow. 


tled. 


Sodger, a soldier. 


S'-iwiii', sowing. 


Skeigh, shy, maiden coyness. 


Sonsie, having svreet engagin/f 


Sax, six. 


Skellitm, a noisy reckless fellow. 


looks, lucky, jolly. 


Scaiid, to scald. 


Sk-idp, to strike, to slap: to walk 


Soom, to swim. 


Sctdd, to scold. 


with ,a smart tripping step, a 


Souk, to suck, to drink long and 


Scaur, apt to be scared; a preci- 


smart stroke. 


enduringly. 


pitous bank of earth which 


Skfilpi-limmer, a technical term in 


Soiq^le, flexible, swift. 


the stream has washed red. 


female scolding. 


Sonpled, suppled. 


Scawl, a scold. 


Skelpin, skelpit, striking, walking 


Sojither, to solder. 


Scone, a kind of bread. 


rapidly, literally striking the 


Souter, a shoemaker. 


Scoiiner, a loathing, to loath. 


ground. 


Sowens, the fine flour remaining 


Scraich and Sericyh, to scream, as 


Skiiiklin, thin, gauzy, sealtery. 


among the seeds of oatme* 


• a hen or partridge. 


Skirling, shrieking, crying. 


made into an agreeable pud- 


Screed, to tear, a rent; screeding, 


Skirl, to cry, to shriek shrilly. 


ding. 


tearing. 


Skirl't, shrieked. 


Soup, a spoonful, a small quantity 


&<->.;«, scrieven, to glide softly, 


Sklent, slant, to run aslant, to de- 


of anything liquid. 


gleesomely along. 


viate from truth. 


Sowth, to try over a tune with a 


Scrimp, to scant. 


Sklented, ran, or hit, in an oblique 


low whistle. 


Scrimpet, scant, scanty. 


direction. 


Sjxie, to prophesy, to divine. 


Scrogyie, covered with underwood. 


Skonth, vent, free action. 


Spail.i, chips, splintera. 


bushy. 


Skreigh, a scream, to scream, the 


Spaid, a limb. 


Scrddndrey, fornication. 


first cry uttered by a child. 


Spairge, to clash, to soil, as with 


Sfizin', seizing. 


Skyte, a worthless fellow, to slide 


mire. 


M, self; a body's seV, one's self 


rapidly off. 


Spates, sudden floods. 


alone. 


Skyrin, party-coloured, the checks 


Spariet, having the spavin. 


?5if «, did sell. 


of the tartan. 


Spcat, a sweeping torrent aft« ■ 


.^r-', i-. send 


Slae, sloe. 


rain or thaw. 


hereon', servant. 


Slade, did slide. 


Speel, to climb. 


Settlin', settling; to get a settlin', 


Sla]}, a gate, a breach in a fence. 


Spence, the parlour of a farmhouse 


to be frighted into quietness. 


Slaw, slow. 


or cottage. 


Sets, sets off, goes away. 


Slee, sleest, sly, slyest. 


Spier, to ask, to inquire; epieri, 


Shachlet-feet, ill-shaped. 


Sleekit, sleek, sly. 


inquired. 


Shair'd, a shred, a shard. 


Sliddery, slippery. 


Spinnin-graith, wheel and rolrs 


Sha7igaii, a stick cleft at one end 


Slip-shod, smooth shod. 


and lint. 


for pulling the tail of a dog. 


Sloken, quench, slake. 


Splatter, to splutter, a splutter. 


&c., by way of mischief, or to 


Slyre, to fall over, as a wet furrow 


Spleughan, a tobacco-pouch. 


frighten hirCi away. 


from the plough. 


Splore, a frciio, noise, rioV 


Skank-it, walk it; shanks, legs. 


Slypet-o'er, fell over with a slow 


Sprachled, scrambled. 


Hhaul. shallow. 


reluctant motion. 


Sprattle, to ec. 'amble. 



540 


GLOSSARY. 




Spreckled, spotted, speckled. 


Stock, stocked, a shock of corn, 




Spring, a quick air in music, a 


made into shocks. 


Tap, the top. 


Scottish reel. 


Stot, a young bull or ox. 


Tapetless, heedless, foolish. 


Sprit, spret, a tough-rooted plant 


Stoiuid, sudden pang of the heart. 


Targe, targe them tightly, croSft 


something like rushes, joint- 


Stoup, or stowp, a kind of high 


question them severely. 


ed-leaved rush. 


narrow jug or dish with a 


Tarrow, to murmur at one's allow. 


Spritue, full of spirits. 


handle for holding liquids. 


ance. 


Spunk, fire, mettle, wit, spark. 


Stowre, dust, more particularly 


Tarry-lreeks, a sailor. 


Spnnkie, mettlesome, fiery; will 


dust in motion ; stoim-ie, dusty. 


Tassie, a small measure for liquoB 


o' the wisp, or ignis fatuus; 


Stownlins, by stealth. 


Tauld, or takl, told. . 


the devil. 


Stown, stolen. 


Taupie, a foolish, thoughtleM 


Spurtle, a stick used in making 


Stoyte, the walking of a '■'' ^''-^n 


young pers.in. 


oatmeal pudding or porridge. 


man. 


Tautcd, or tautU, matted togethei 


* notable Scottish dish. 


Straek, did strike. 


(spoken of hair and wool). 


Sqund, a crew or party, a squad- 


Strae, straw ; to die a fair strae 


Tawie, that allows itself peaceably 


ron. 


death, to die in bed. 


to be handled (spoken of a 


Squatter, to flutter in water, as 


St.raik, to stroke ; straiket, stroked. 


cow, horse, <fcc.) 


a wild-duck, Ac. 


Strappen, tall, handsome, vigorous. 


Tent, a small quantity. 


Sqnattltfio sprawl in the. act of 


Strath, low alluvial land, a holm. 


Teethless bawtie, toothless cur. 


hiding. 


Straught, straight. 


Teethless gab, a mouth wanting 


Squeel, a scream, a screech, to 


Streek, stretched, to stretch. 


the teeth, an expression of 


scream. 


Striddle, to straddle. 


scorn. 


Stacker, to stagger. 


Stroon, to spput, to piss. 


Ten-hours-bite, a slight feed to 


Stack, a rick of corn, hay, peats. 


Stroup, tho spout. 


the horse while in the yoke in 


Staggie, a stag. 


Studdie, the anvil. 


the forenoon. 


Stdig, a two year-old horse. 


Stumpie, diminutive of stump; a 


Tent, a field pulpit, heed, caution ; 


Stalwart, stately, strong. 


grub pen. 


to take heed. 


Staiig, sting, stung. 


Strunt, spirituous liquor of any 


Tentie, heedful, cautious. 


Stan't, to stand ; stan't, did stand, 


bind ; to walk sturdily, to be 


Tentlcss, heedless, careless. 


Stane, stone. 


■^fi'ronted. 


Tengh, tough. 


Stank, did stink, a pool of stand- 


Stuff, corn or pulse of any kind. 


Thack, thatch; thaek an' rape, 


ing water, slow-moving water. 


Sturt, trouble; to molest. 


clothing and necessaries. 


Sta]), stop, stave. 


Startin, frighted. 


Thae, these. 


Stark, stout, potent. 


Styme, a glimmer. 


Thairms, small guts, fiddle-strings. 


Startle, to run as cattle stung by 


Sucker, sugar. 


Thankit, thanked. 


the gadfly. 


Sud, should. 


Theekit, thatched. 


Staukin, stalking, walking dis- 


Sugh, the continued rushing noise 


Thegither, together. 


dainfully, walking without an 


of wind or water. 


Themsel', themselves. 


aim. 


Sumph, a pluckless fellow, with 


Thick, intimate, familiar. 


Staumrel, a blockhead, half-witted. 


little heart or soul. 


Thigrjer, crowding, make h noise J 


Stow, did steal, to surfeit. 


Suthron, Southern, an old name 


a seeker of alms. 


StecJi, to cram the belly. 


of the English. 


Thir, these. 


Stechin, cramming. 


Swaird, sword. 


Thirl, to thrill. 


Steek, to shut, a stitoh. 


SwaU'4, swelled. 


Thirled, thrilled, vibrated. 


Steer, to molest, to stir. 


Stt-ank, stately, jolly. 


Thole, to suffer, to endure. 


Sfeeve, firm, compacted. 


Swankie, or ewanker, a tight strap- 


Thowe, a thaw, to thaw. 


Sfell, a still. 


ping young feilow or girl. 


Thowleas, slack, lazy. 


Sten, to rear as a horse, to leap 


Swap, xn e.ojhiig,,, ;.) 'jarter. 


Thrang, throng, busy, a crowd. 


suddenly.- 


Sn^arfed, swooned. 


Thrapple, throat, windpipe. 


Stravrigin, wandering without an 


Swat, did sweat. 


Zhraw, to sprain, to twist, to con- 


aim. 


Swatch, a sampla. 


tradict. 


Stents, tribute, dues of any kind. 


Swats, drink, good ale, new ale or 


Thrawin, twisting, &c. 


S'tei/, steep ; uti/est, steepest. 


wort. 


Thrawr, sprained, twisted, con- ' 


Stilhle, stubbie; stuhblc-rig, the 


Sweer, lazy, averse; dead-sweer, 


tradicted, contradiction. 


reaper in harvest who takes 


extremely averse. 


Threap, to maintain by dint -Nf as- 


the lead. 


Swoor, swore, did swear. 


sertion. 


Slick-an'-stow, totally, altogether. 


Swinge, to beat, to whip. 


Thre-shin', threshing ; threahtu'- 


Sfilt-stilts, a crutch; to limp, tc 


Swirike, to labour hard. 


tree, a flail. 


halt; poles for crossing a 


Swirlie, knaggy, full of knots. 


Thr^^tecii, thirteen. 


river. 


iStoirl, a curve, an eddying blast 


Thri.,tle, thistle. 


impart, the eighth part of a 


or pool, a knot in the wood. 


Through, to go on with, to mak * 


Winchester bushel. 


Swith, get away. 


out. 


8tif\ a cow or bullock a year 


S wither, to hesitate in caoiee, an 


Thronther, pell-mell, confusedlj 


old. 


irresolute wavering in choice. 


(through-ither). 


Sto<ik, a plant of colewort, cab- 


Syehow, a thick-necked onion. 


Thrum, sound of a spinning-wheol 


bages. 


Syne, since, ago, then. 


in motion, the thread remain- 


Vtockin', stocking; throioing the 




•ng at the end of a web. 


stoekin', when the bride and 


T. 


Thud, to make a loud intermitt^Ql 


bridegroom are put into bed. 




noise. 


the former throws a stocking 


Tackets, broad-headed nails for 


Thummart, foumart, polecat. 


at random among the com- 


the heels of shoes. 


. Thumpit, thumped. 


pany, and the person whom 


Tae, a toe ; three-taed, having three 


Thysd', thyself. 


it falls on is the next that 


prongs. 


TilVt, to it. 


will be married. 


Tak, to take; takin, taking. 


Timmer, timber. 





GLOSSARY. 


541 


Tine, to lose ; tint, lost. 


Twa f aid, twofold. 


Wat, a man's upper dress ; a sort 


Tinkler, a tinker. 


Twin, to part. 


of mantle. 


Ti}:, a ram. 


Twistle, twisting, the art of making 


Water-brose, brose made of meal 


Tippeuce, twopence, money. 


a rope. 


and water simply, without th« 


Tirl, to make a slight noise, to 


Tyke, a dog. 


_ addition of milk, butter, Ac. 


uncover. 


Tysday, Tuesday. • 


Wattle, a twig, a wand. 


Tirln,', tiHet, uncovering. 




Wanhle, to swing, to reel. 


Tithrj; the other. 


U. 


Waukin, waking, watching. 


Tittle, to whisper, to prate idly. 




Waukit, thickened as fullers do 


Tittlii, whispering. 


UnhacTc'd filly, a young mare 


cloth. 


■ Tichir, marriage portion ; tocher 


hitherto unsaddled. 


Waukrife, not apt to sleep. 


bands, marriage bonds. 


Unco, strange, uncouth, very, very 


TFawr, worse, to worst. 


Tod, a fox. " Tod i' the /auld," 


great, prodigious. 


Waur't, worsted. 


fox in the fold. 


Uncos, news. 


Wean, a child. 


Toddle, to totter, like the walk of 


Unfauld, unfold. 


Weary-widdle, toilsome contest of 


a child; todlen-dow, toddling 


Unkenn'd, unknown. 


life. 


dove. 


Unsickei. uncertain, wavering, in- 


Weason, weasand, windpipe. 


Too-fa', "Too fa' o' the nicht," 


secure. 


Weaven' the stocking, to knit 


when twilight darkens into 


Uiiskaithed, undamaged, unhurt. 


stockings. 


night; a building added, a 


Upo', upon. 


Weeder-olips, instrument for re- 


lean-to. 




moving weeds. 


Toom, empty. 


v. 


Wee, little ; wee things, little ones, 


Toomed, emptied. 




. wee bits, a small matter. 


Tcov a ram. 


Vap'rin ■"^apovring. 


Weel. well : weelfr-re, w«lfarP 


Toi., a to„^t. 


\'aMti<_ joy .r.s, il<,.lig"Ui wLic/i 


Weet, J j,in, ?. etnaSJ ; t ^ei. 


Toaie, warm and ruddy with 


cannot contain itself. 


We'se, we shaU. 


warmth, good-looking, in- 


Vera, very. 


Wha, who. 


toxicating. 


Virl, a ring round a column, &c. 


Whaizle, to wheeze. 


Toiin, a hamlet, a farmhouse. 


Vogie, vain. 


Whalpit, whelped. 


Tout, tho blaPt of a horn or trum- 




Whang, a leathern thong, a piew. 


pet, to blow a horn or trumpet. 


W. 


of cheese, bread, <fec. 


Touzles, toazling, romping, ruffling 




Whare, where; whare'er, when- 


the clothes. 


Wa', wall ; icrs'g, walls. 


ever. 


Tow, a rope. 


Wabster, a weaver. 


Wheep, to fly nimbly, to jerh. 


Towmond, a twelvemonth. 


Wad, would, to bet, a bet, a 


penny-wheep, small-beer. 


Towzie, rough, shaggy. 


pledge. 


Whose, wha's, whose — who is. 


Toy, a very old fashion of female 


Wadna, would not. • 


What reck, nevertheless. 


head-dress. 


Wadset, land on which money is 


Whid, the motion of a hare run- 


foyie, to totter like old age. 


lent, a mortgage. 


ning, but not frighted — a lie. 


Trams, harrow-trams, the handles 


Wae. woe; waefu', sorrowful; 


Whidden, running as a hare oi 


of a barrow. 


wailing. 


coney. 


Transmu-.jrijied, transmigrated, 


Waefu'-woodie, hangman's rope. 


Whigmeleerieg, whims, fancies, 


metamorphosed. 


Waesucks! Wae'a me! Alas I 


crotchets. 


Trashtrie, trash, rubbish. 


the pity ! 


Whilk, which. 


Trickie, full of tricks. 


Wa' flower, wall-flower. 


Whingin', crying, complaining. 


Trig, spruce, neat. 


Wa/t, woof; the cross thread that 


fretting. 


Trimly, cleverly, excellently, in a , 


goes from the shuttle through 


Wtiirligigums, useless ornamer.'s, 


seemly manner. 


, the web. 


trifling appendages. 


•-^ Trinle, trintle, the wheel of a bar- 


Waifs an' crocks, stray sheep and 


Whissle, a whistle, to whistle. 


row, to roll. 


old ewes past breeding. 


Whisht, silence; to hold ow'i 


Trinklin, trickling. 


Wair, to lay out, to expend. 


whist, to be silent. 


Troggers, troggin', wandering mer- 


Wale, choice, to choose. 


Whisk, whisket, to sweep, to lash. 


chants, goods to truck or dis- 


Wal'd, chose, chosen. 


Whiskin' beard, a beard like the 


pose of. 


Walie, ample, large, jolly, also an 


whiskers of a cat. 


Trow, to believe, to trust to. 


exclamation of distress. 


Whiskit, lashed, the motion ot a 


Trowth, truth, a petty oath. 


Wnme, the belly. 


horse's tail removing flies. 


■ Trysts, appointments, love meet- 


Wame/u', a bellyful. 


TFi^tVier, a hearty draught of liquor 


ings, cattle shows. 


Wanchansie, unlucky. 


Whittle, a knife. 


Tumbler-wheels, the wheels of a 


Wanrest, wanrestfu', restless, an- 


Whunstane, a whinstone. 


kind of low cart. 


restful. 


Wi', with. 


Tug, raw hide, of which in old 


Wark, work. 


Wick, to strike % stone in an ob- 


time plough-traces were fre- 


Wark-lume, x tool to work with. 


lique direction, a term ia 


quently made. 


Warld's-worm, a miser. 


curling. 


Tug or tow, either in leather or 


Warle, or warld, world. 


Widdifu, twisted like a withy, <m 


rope. 


Warlock, a wizard; warlock-knoioe, 


who merits hanging. 


Tulzie, a quarrel, to quarrel, to 


a knoll where warlocks once 


Wiel, a small whirlpool. 


^ght ^ 


held tryste. 


Wifie-imfikie, a diminutive oi en 


Twa, two ; tioa-fald, twofold. 


Warly, worldly, eager in amassing 


aearing name for wife 


Twa-three, a few. 


wealth. 


Wight, stout^ enduring. 


Twad, it would. 


Warran', a warrant, to warrant. 


Willyart-glower, a bewildered dis- 


Timl, twelve; twalpennie worth, 


Warsle, wrestle. 


mayed stare. 


a small quantity, a penny- 


Warsl'd, or warst'led, wrestled. 


Wimple-womplet, to meander, m^ 


worth. — -N. B. One penny 


Wastrie, prodigality. 


andered, to enfold. 


English is 12d. Scotch. 


Wat, wet ; / wat~I wo<— I know. 


Wimplin, waving, meandering. 



MJ 



•GLOSSARY. 



Win', to wind, to winnow. 


■H-oer-So^the garter knitted below 


Yearns, longs much. 


Winnin' -thread, putting thread 


the knee with a couple of loops. 


Yealings, born in the same yMur, 


, into hanks. 


Wordy, worthy. 


coevals. 


Witii, winded as a bottom of yarn. 


Worset, worsted. 


Year, is used both for singmUi 


Win', wind. 


Wrack, to tease, to vex. 


and plural, years. 


Win, live. 


Wud, wild, mad; toud-mad, dis- 


Yell, barren, that gives uo'ititU. 


Winna, will not. 


tracted. 


Yerk, to lash, to jerk. 


Winnock, a window. 


Wumhle, a wimble. 


Yerket, jerked, lashed. 


Winsome, hearty, vaunted, gay. 


Wraith, a spirit, a ghost, an ap- 


" Yestreen, j'esternight. 


Wintle, a staggering motion, to 


parition exactly like a living 


Yeti, a gate. 


stagger, to reel. 


person, whose appearance is 


Yenk's, itches. 


Wiss, to wish. 


said to forbode the person's 


Yill,.Sile. 


Withouten, without. 


approaching death ; also 


Yird, yirded, earth, earthed, )m 


Wizened, hide-bound, dried, 


wrath. 


ried. 


shrunk. 


Wra7ig, wrong, to wrong. 


Yokin', yoking. 


Winze, a curse or imprecation. 


Wreeth, a 4rit'ted heap of snow. 


Yont, ayont, beyond. 


Wonner, a wonder, a contemptuous 


Wyliecoat, a flannel vest. 


Yirr, lively. 


appellation. 


Wyte, blame, to blame. 


Yo2oe, an ewe. 


Woo', wool. 




Yoioie, diminntivo oi y«N»C. 


Woo, to court, to make love to. 


Y. 


Yule, ChristiUftS. 


Widdie, & rope, more properly 


Ye, this pronoun is frequently 




osie of withs or willows. 


uiad for s&oa- 





I 



LIBRARY OF 




CONGRESS 



014 389 112 4 • 



;-:i- 



■^s^.-.*.- 



l^/</i^ 



'■*^f-rl'. 



